


Heart of Winter

by Skulduggery



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Genderbending, Rule 63, pretend that the timeline for this makes even the slightest lick of sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:45:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 60,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skulduggery/pseuds/Skulduggery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they set off on their quest to reclaim Erebor, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield makes a brief stop in the Shire to rest and replenish their supplies. Quite unexpectedly, however, winter sets in early and they are forced to stay where they are for the season.</p><p>Much to their dismay, they soon discover that this is no ordinary winter, but the dark days that will eventually come to be known as the Fell Winter, a period of bitter strife that will leave them stranded in the Shire for two long, hard years.</p><p>In the meantime, they are left to carve out a home and living for themselves as long as the winter may last. But good things come in the most surprising places—not the least of which is the young and hot-blooded Bilba Baggins, who is determined to make friends of the dwarves if it’s the last thing she does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Party

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the fanfic I set out to write.
> 
> As a matter of fact, this is what happens when female Bilbo and Thorin reenact Frank Loesser's Christmas classic, Baby It's Cold Outside (which may give you a hint of some scenes I'd like to include in the future) and my brain runs wild with it.
> 
> What should you expect? Lots of gratuitous fluff, embarrassing situations, heartfelt conversations, and some very stubborn characters. I would also like to quickly point out that Bilba's character is quite different from the older Bilbo we're familiar with in the book and movies. Because she's younger (I was aiming for about the hobbit equivalent of early twenties) she's still very rash and Tookish, and at this point takes more after her mother than her father.
> 
> Enjoy.

The largest barn in Hobbiton was a tall, spacious building owned by the Old Took. Once upon a time, it had housed many of the town’s animals, but in the early years of his appointment as Thain, the building had been renovated to serve as a community space. The animals had been relocated, the dirt floor had been paved over with carefully fitted flagstones, and a large hearth had been built into the center of one of the long walls. The barn’s hay loft had remained as a concession to those in want of privacy, and often when the good folk of Hobbiton gathered there for parties after it became too cold to host them in the field, eager young couples could be spotted sneaking up to the hayloft for a quick stolen kiss. Gerontius, the Old Took, had a tender heart for young love, and many concessions of a similar sort were present at his parties for those with an eye to spot them.

Of course, such trifles were of no particular concern to his rather odd granddaughter, Bilba Baggins. She was widely considered the loveliest of his grandchildren in the full bloom of her youth, and by equal measure, she was also the most romantically disinterested. When other girls her age seized the opportunity of Old Took’s harvest party to slip away with their suitors, Bilba was climbing the tall chestnut tree in front of the barn, determined to retrieve one of the conkers from the very top branches, merely for the satisfaction of proving Lobelia Bracegirdle wrong.

She knew she shouldn’t have taken the challenge, for Lobelia was undoubtedly hoping she’d fall. And wearing one of her finest party dresses no less. The silky gold material of the skirt threatened to catch on the branches and tear as she ascended, and the tightly laced bodice made it difficult for her to move, but its daring neckline (which her father had fretted was cut much too low, but her mother had insisted Bilba was a _grown woman now_ and should be allowed to _show_ it once in a while) let the cool air flow across her chest and collarbone as it whisked through the dying leaves of the tree.

Lobelia didn’t know because she never ventured too far outside, but Bilba was one of the best tree climbers in the Shire, and the Tookish lass felt nothing but triumph as she ascended into the highest branches of the tree and plucked one of its green fruit. Later she could remove the skin, revealing the inedible chestnut inside. For now, she held it gingerly in one hand and began her descent, keeping a watchful eye on her intended path as she went. Climbing back down again was always the hardest part.

Bilba was almost halfway down when she spotted a long row of lanterns coming up the road toward the party. A whole crowd of folk was on their way, but she couldn’t help finding it odd that they should arrive tardy. Certainly, none of the hobbits she knew would risk coming late to one of the Old Took’s parties, for fear that all of the best food would be gone by the time they’d arrived. These had to be very strange folk indeed, and it was curiosity that led her to stay where she was in the tangle of branches at the heart of the tree, hoping to spy them as they arrived.

The peculiarity of the situation was clarified somewhat as the party drew nearer. At their head was an unmistakable tall person wearing an even taller hat—the endearingly eccentric wizard, Gandalf, who she had known for as long as she remembered. She almost called out to him or began climbing down to greet him—but by then the party had drawn close enough that they would undoubtedly see her drop out of the tree, and that would not only be entirely inappropriate but also deeply embarrassing. So she stayed where she was and held entirely still, hoping none of them would catch the gleam of gold fabric high over their heads.

The group, all cloaked and hooded and entirely suspicious, was just passing under the tree when Gandalf suddenly paused and turned, the brim of his hat tilting upward as he strained to peer at her. “Bless my beard, is that Miss Bilba Baggins I spy up in those branches?”

There had to be at least a dozen in the group that Gandalf was leading, with four or five hooded lanterns scattered among them, and all of them turned to follow the wizard’s gaze. Bilba blushed profusely as she felt the weight of their attention settle on her awkward position, and she couldn’t think to do anything except shift uncomfortably in the sudden light. “Er, hello.”

“My dear girl,” Gandalf cleared his throat, “Whatever are you doing up in that tree?”

“Fetching a chestnut from the highest branches!” she called, showing off the green fruit in her hand. “Lobelia Bracegirdle said that I couldn’t do it, so naturally, I had to prove her wrong.”

 “Somehow, I don’t believe your father would approve,” Gandalf leveled, raising his bushy eyebrows at her.

“Oh, Gandalf, you won’t tell him, will you?”

The wizard made a sound in the back of his throat. “We’ll see.”

Completely aware that this was not an ideal position from which to conduct civilized conversation, Bilba began to descend again. She was incredibly flustered, however, and as her long toes stretched toward one of the thick branches below, she lost her footing and, with a startled cry, fell unceremoniously from the tree.

If there was one thing to be said for Gandalf’s company, they certainly had impressive reflexes. Several of them moved to catch her at once, but the one who reached her first was among the largest. She was struck by the sensation of long, soft fur tickling her bare skin, and resting in a cradle of thick arms so strong one would think that she weighed nothing at all. It took Bilba a moment to catch her breath and regain her wits, and once she did, she shrieked and wriggled her way out of the stranger’s arms.

Beard. He had a _beard_. A generous patch of black hair framed his mouth, matching the thick mane that flowed from the top of his head and out of his hood. His body looked as solid as it had felt, taller than any hobbit she’d ever met and easily twice the breadth in his shoulders. Everything about him was chiseled and hard, as though he’d been hewn from the stone itself, and he would have seemed cold as marble were it not for the intense, dark blue eyes that glittered at her from beneath his heavy brow. His features remained impassive in the face of her panic, as though he had predicted the reaction. “Apologies,” he murmured quietly, holding out his hands to show he meant no harm.

Bilba stared at him for a long moment, fighting against her shock, then finally tore away her gaze long enough to glance at his fellows. Beards, beards—knitted mittens?—and _more_ beards, and she was fairly convinced she had never seen so much hair in her life.

She knew that they were dwarves. She couldn’t say that they were what she had expected from their kind one way or the other; by virtue of the fact that they were _here_ , puffing hot breath into the cold autumn air, and not in her storybooks, they already far exceeded her expectation.

 “Ah—Bilba, allow me to introduce the Company of Thorin Oakenshield: Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Bifur, Bofur, and of course—Bombur. They hail from the Blue Mountains to the west, and we are only making a brief stop in the Shire before continuing on a long journey eastward. As for you, my good fellows, this is the lovely Miss Bilba Baggins of Bag End, with whom I do hope you’ll have the chance to get acquainted.”

Still staggering from the confusing onslaught of names, Bilba narrowly managed to curtsy. Their appearance had been startling, but one of them had saved her from what could have been a nasty spill, so they deserved her courtesy. “At your service and your family’s,” she said politely. “I do apologize if I startled you—we don’t get many outsiders through here. But—“

With every intention of going on and hopefully making amends for her foolish behavior, Bilba was interrupted as a pack of young bucks inched out of the open door to the barn and squinted into the darkness. “Miss Bilba? Everything alright? We thought we heard a scream.” All four of them were hobbits about her same age, and among them were two of her would-be suitors.

“Oh, aye, and if the lass had fallen to her death you _might’ve_ been just in time to save her carcass from the carrion-eaters,” quipped a dwarf with a peculiar winged hat on his head.

The hobbits at the door shuffled uncomfortably at the jab. “Right, well, there was a bit of a scuffle when we were trying to decide who should go look— _and anyway_ , who’re you?? Gandalf, what sort of strange folk have you dragged to the doorstep?” Thorin, the tall dwarf who had caught Bilba, shifted uncomfortably in front of her, but he said nothing.

Gandalf was a friend of Old Took’s, but he wasn’t trusted like the daughter of a Baggins, so she saw a chance to make herself useful. “A right suspicious lot, you are,” she said reproachfully, brushing past the crowd of dwarves to make her way toward the door. “Is this or is this _not_ a party? And hosted by the legendarily hospitable Old Took, no less! You ought to be ashamed. Now shoo, shoo! Let them in! They look exhausted!” Along with Gandalf, she led the crowd of dwarves into the large barn, abruptly interrupting the merry festivities inside. As she passed Lobelia, Bilba subtly slipped her the chestnut.

The townsfolk fell dead silent as the company of dwarves filed into the barn, parting for the strange group like water for oil. Gandalf moved toward the Old Took near the hearth to explain the situation, and unexpectedly, Bilba found herself standing between two crowds equally distrustful of each other.

Tookish a girl though she may have been, she was also the daughter of the diplomatic Bungo Baggins. Turning toward the dwarves and fighting to conceal her nervousness, she spoke in a clear voice for all to hear. “Well, now, welcome to Hobbiton. You won’t find a friendlier town in all the Shire!” she assured them warmly, ignoring the cold silence that insisted otherwise. “By all means, make yourselves at home, have a bite to eat, and enjoy the party. I’m sure some accommodations will be seen to.”

There was another beat of silence, but the promise of food seemed enough to break the icy distrust that glazed over the strangers. A tall dwarf with a bald tattooed pate was the first to stride toward the buffet table, pick up a plate, and begin sampling the dishes that had been neatly laid out. His fellows weren’t far behind—in a disheveled crowd, they shucked off their cloaks and helped themselves to the food.

The hobbits seemed inclined to act shocked in response to their audacity, but the effect was somewhat diminished by Bilba’s invitation—she was the Took’s granddaughter, after all. So most of them settled instead for disgruntlement, muttering disapproval over the way the dwarves greedily gorged themselves. Bilba felt mildly pleased with herself, hoping she’d at least somewhat eased a meeting which had the potential for disaster.

And yet, she could see that her work wasn’t over. The dwarves claimed a solitary corner of the room far from the door, and the hobbits stayed well enough away, as though they expected the outsiders to carry plague. Gandalf and Old Took were entirely unhelpful; they were deeply engaged in their own conversation, utterly oblivious to the state of the room around them.

Bilba sighed and moved toward the group of musicians lining the wall across from the hearth. They had all settled with their instruments in their laps, content to mutter suspiciously along with everyone else.

“What’s all this, then?” she chirped at them, putting her hands on her hips. Though she was younger than the lot of them, they straightened to attention as if they had been called out by someone with actual authority. “Fat lot of good you are, a band of musicians silent as the grave. For shame!” They looked properly cowed by her words, and a few of them shifted to hoist their instruments into place, but she could still see them casting uncomfortable looks at each other and the dwarves.

“Enough of that,” she said firmly, stomping one foot impatiently on the floor. “Play!”

The threat of Bilba’s wrath seemed enough motivation to get them going. They lifted their instruments and started up a jolly melody, instantly lightening the mood in the hall. Bilba watched hopefully for couples to start filling the dance floor again, but she was met only with uncertain looks. She waited through one song, then through another, and when the dance floor remained stubbornly empty, she took a deep breath and gathered her resolve. “If you want something done right,” she muttered to herself.

Bilba took a skipping step and then twirled across the empty gap at the center of the room, moving toward the corner where the dwarves had settled. She was a spirited dancer, fully Took when a good melody got a hold of her, and her gleaming gold skirts and ribbons easily caught the attention of the two crowds. Stopping in front of the dwarves with a breathy laugh, she curtsied again—this time to one of the younger dwarves, a strapping brown haired fellow with no more beard than a light scruff, and by virtue of that fact, looked almost hobbitish.

“Master dwarf, might I have the pleasure of this dance?” she asked, composing herself with a bright grin.

The dwarves looked almost as shocked as the hobbits by her invitation, and the one to whom she had spoken glanced questioningly at Thorin. The leader had settled near the door with his pipe; Bilba saw his gaze flicker toward her for a long moment before he subtly nodded his approval to his young companion.

Her partner’s face split into a broad, beaming smile and he stepped forward, swooping down to hook his arm around Bilba’s waist and lead her into an energetic reel. It was a little clumsy as she taught him the steps and learned to avoid his massive boots, but once they’d gotten comfortable with each other they had a marvelous time. He introduced himself as Kili—fortunately, he was very understanding of the fact that their names had gone a bit over her head—and despite his being a dwarf, she decided he was a very fine lad indeed.

In short order, another one of the dwarves cut into their dance and, with a bow, politely asked for a turn. Blond haired with a carefully braided moustache, she learned that his name was Fili, and he was Kili’s older brother. He was more of a showman than Kili, with more swagger in his step, but she quickly decided that she liked them both very much.

Again, they were interrupted by one of the dwarves hoping for a dance—the one with the funny hat whose name she learned was Bofur—and by this time, she noticed with a great deal of satisfaction that other couples were beginning to fill the dance floor around them.

As the party crept later into the night, Bilba had a chance to dance with most of the dwarven company. A few of them were shy enough that she was left to make more trips to the dwarves’ corner to ask, but the only ones who declined were those who gently explained that they were married and preferred not to dance with another lady.

Exhausting though it was, Bilba considered it to be a fine system of getting to know their new guests. All of them were more open toward conversing with her once they were dancing, even if one or two of them seemed to have trouble communicating properly (one was completely deaf and misinterpreted every word she said, and another didn’t seem to know the common tongue).

Well into the night when it looked as though the party was finally beginning to wind down, Bilba’s feet were ready to fall off at the ankle. Her would-be suitors would begin asking her to dance soon, because she surely couldn’t say no to hobbits if she was willing to dance with dwarves. So before they had the chance, she slipped out the back of the hall where the far doors of the barn opened onto a small deck. Set on the edge of a large pond, the back railing overlooked a calm black stretch of water, reflecting glittering yellow lights from distant hobbit holes.

She hurried out into the cool autumn darkness, closing her eyes and resting back against one of the tall wooden columns set intermittently into the railing. Baring her sweat slicked neck to the icy breeze that blew in from the north, Bilba smiled as she fought to catch her breath, thinking back on the excitement of the evening. The dwarves had been an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. She’d always wanted to meet outsiders, to see for herself the brave adventurers from Gandalf’s stories—this was everything she’d ever dreamed of, even if she’d die before she admitted it.

Of course, her father was sure to have a few words for her when she got home that evening, but she had no doubt her mother would come to her defense. Belladonna and Bilba had a very clear understanding of each other, one which often left Bungo at a distinct disadvantage.

Bilba breathed another long sigh and focused on her slowing pulse—then jumped when she heard someone clear their throat from the direction of the door. Opening her eyes, and laying a hand over her breast when her heart started racing anew, she discovered it was none other than Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of the dwarven company. Only as she spotted him then did it occur to her that she had never gotten the chance to dance with him. He must have slipped outside soon after the dancing started, as she hadn’t seen him in the corner with his dwarves when she made trips back to retrieve those she had yet to meet.

Had she not gotten such a clear look at his features before, she might have had a difficult time recognizing him. He was cloaked in deep shadow where he stood leaning beside the door, his face only illuminating when he took a deep draw on his pipe and set the embers inside glowing bright orange. He stared at her as he let the smoke curl out from between his lips, wreathing his glittering eyes in a translucent veil. Bilba hadn’t the faintest inkling what a dragon might look like, but she got the distinct impression that from where Thorin stood in shadow puffing on his pipe, he must surely bear some resemblance to one.

“Master Oakenshield,” she greeted, her hand over her heart. “You startled me.”

“Voyeurism is no pleasure of mine,” he answered, his voice a deep and full timbre. “I thought you should be aware of my presence.”

“Of course,” Bilba nodded, dropping her hand. “Thank you.” There was a long moment of silence where they sat sizing each other up, then she spoke again. “And—thank you for saving me earlier. I didn’t meant to come across as ungrateful. I just—I was expecting a hobbit is all.”

“Understandable.” It seemed as though he was going to let the conversation ebb away from there, but to her surprise, he moved across the deck to stand next to her. Splaying his large hands on the rail on either side of him, he leaned forward and looked out across the water. “This is a lovely village,” he remarked. “It seems to be very peaceful.”

She grinned, turning away from the party and leaning her head against the tall wooden post. “Sometimes I’m fairly certain that it’s the most peaceful place in the world. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing.”

Thorin turned a curious eye toward her at that, taking another long draw on his pipe. Though he said nothing, the question rang loud and clear in his face.

“I only mean that, well… it can be awfully dull sometimes.” She ran her long finger across the cool grain of the wood, absently digging her nail into the tiny crevices. “I do love the Shire, but all too often it makes me feel like a bird locked up in a birdcage. The same small town—the same small _life_ , day after day after day. The same nosy busybodies getting into each other’s business, turning up their noses at the first hint of impropriety. I just wish that I could… escape it all. Only once. I want to do something wild and daring and utterly magnificent.”

Thorin looked at her for a long moment, and she caught herself wishing in the back of her mind that she knew what he was thinking. He looked so much and said so little, and she couldn’t for the life of her guess what his opinion of her might be.

“Never wish away peace,” he said quietly, turning his gaze back to the water. “It is a precious and fragile thing, hard won and easily lost. Consider yourself blessed to have lived such a life. I have seen many wars in my time, and much calamity. I would trade all my long years of strife for even a single day of peace for my people.”

Bilba averted her gaze from the dwarf and stared down into the water, suddenly feeling very foolish for voicing her desires. Of course he wouldn’t sympathize with her childish fancies; why should he feel any lust for adventure when he had spent his entire life living it? She didn’t attempt to reply, for it felt as though there was very little she could say in the face of such frankness.

The silence was filled by the sound of tiny waves lapping against the rocks of the shore. From inside the hall a sliver of warm light was cast across the deck and over the pond, carrying with it the muffled hint of music and the featureless noise of a large crowd. The sweat and heat that had gathered from the evening’s exertion had long since disappeared from Bilba’s skin, and as the north wind crept across the dark water, she shivered.

Wordlessly, Thorin shifted beside her and before she registered what he was doing, he had removed the fur mantle from atop his coat and draped it around her shoulders. She glanced up at him in surprise, ready to protest, but something in the way he was looking at her discouraged argument, so she pulled the pelt tighter around her and muttered quiet thanks. It was incredibly warm—moreso for having rested on his body, which exuded heat like a furnace. She savored the warmth, breathing deep, then took a moment to admire the smell of leather and wilderness and masculine musk.

“Gandalf said that you were traveling east,” she began, unable to resist looking up toward him again. “Are you going to Moria?” She hoped that the question wasn’t a petulant one; she knew very little about dwarves, only what she had heard from stories and books and seen on her mother’s maps.

Thorin sighed, sending a wisp of hot steam into the cold air. “No,” he said. He was staring into the distance but his eyes were unfocused, and she felt certain that the object of his attention was hidden deep within his memories. “Farther. Much farther.”

Giving him what she hoped was an encouraging smile, she laid a gentle hand on his thick arm. “If anyone can make such a journey, I’m certain it’s you. You have an excellent company—a loyal group if ever I’ve seen one.”

He drew himself away from his distant memories and looked down at her, and in the pause that followed she could have sworn the shadow of a smile pulled at his lips. “Thank you.”

She meant to say more, but just then they were joined on the deck by a familiar face—Gandalf came shuffling out toward the railing, lighting up his pipe with the tips of his fingers. “What a lovely evening!” he exclaimed, smiling out toward the water. Though she hadn’t any evidence to support the theory, she would have sworn he’d been hovering by the door, waiting for an opportunity to interrupt.

“Yes. Yes it is,” Bilba agreed, turning shyly away from Thorin.

An easy quiet reigned between them for a minute or two, then the wizard made a noise of surprise in the back of his throat. “I say—is that mistletoe?”

Bilba looked toward Gandalf in surprise, then followed his gaze to the post where she’d been leaning—and sure enough, there was a leafy sprig of white berries tacked to the wood over her head. Feeling her cheeks suddenly catch fire, she glanced at Thorin in mortified embarrassment. Fortunately, he seemed entirely lost to the awkward situation; she could only assume that meant dwarves did not have the same traditions. She considered retreating into the party without another word, but Gandalf was watching her with sly eyes, and his look was enough to let her know she’d been cornered.

Pulling Thorin’s fur mantle from her shoulders, she moved to give it back to him, and just as his hands brushed against hers to take it she leaned up and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. It was brief—barely a kiss at all—but they were intimately close for the span of a heartbeat, and their breath mingled long enough for her to taste the smoke of his pipe.

Unable to meet his intense eyes as she drew away, Bilba all but ran back inside the barn.


	2. The Breakfast Fiasco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilba's best intentions lead to an unfortunate misunderstanding with Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Bilbo is supposed to be very similar to his father, Bilbo is more or less how I picture Bungo. And Belladonna is basically clairvoyant. I enjoy writing her.

To Bilba’s dismay, when she returned home to Bag End she could still see the gentle glow of the low-burning hearth through the window. Her father had waited up for her—which meant she was going to get an earful indeed.

Though she opened the door and slipped in as quietly as she could, the moment she turned around from closing it she found her father standing in the arch to the sitting room, tapping one finger impatiently against his pipe. “Young miss, do you know what time it is?”

“Too late to say goodnight, too early to say good morning?” she ventured cheekily. Even as she attempted to stretch a smile across her teeth, she was met with her father’s discouraging scowl. “I was busy playing hostess, papa. We had guests, and Old Took was busy with Gandalf.”

“Guests!” he laughed as though the word was preposterous. “Is that what you call those—those--?”

“ _Dwarves_ , papa, they’re _dwarves_ ,” she said placidly as she moved past him into the sitting room, absently straightening up the table. “And they are _also_ guests. As a matter of fact, I believe grandpapa is going to let them stay in the barn until they continue on their journey.” She watched Bungo’s mouth hang open for a moment, then he scurried over to the window, peering down the path toward the barn as though he expected to see the outsiders from this distance.

“They aren’t that bad, you know. If you only took a few minutes to get to know them—“

“Shall I ask them all to dance the reel with me, then?” he quipped over his shoulder.

“Papa!” Bilba pouted.

“Don’t look at me with those eyes,” her father warned, wagging a finger at her. Even as he spoke, she saw his stormy disposition begin to soften.

“They’re the only eyes I’ve got,” she replied helplessly. Bungo moved past her to pace in front of the hearth, and for the first time, Bilba spotted her mother moving into the room.

“As it is, I don’t like this _dwarf_ business—not one bit,” he began, pausing to puff on his pipe. Before he could continue, Belladonna moved to rest a gentle hand on his arm and murmured something quietly into his ear.

“No, no,” he told his wife adamantly, waving his pipe in the air to punctuate his refusal further. “No! I know what you are doing, Belladonna, and I won’t have you encouraging our daughter to associate herself with—“

“Bungo Baggins,” Belladonna said firmly, placing her hands on her hips and fixing him with a stern look. “We will talk about this in the morning. For now, I insist that you _go to bed_.”

Bungo narrowed his eyes as though he were gearing himself up for a scuffle, but he must have seen something in Belladonna’s face as she stood with her back toward Bilba, for his expression suddenly changed to one of tender exhaustion. Emptying the contents of his pipe into the fireplace, he grumbled something under his breath and stalked out into the hall.

“That goes for you as well, young miss,” Belladonna said, turning toward Bilba with a wry smile. Even as the girl started toward her bedroom, Belladonna trailed after her and began loosening the ribbons that were braided into her hair. Only when they were safely in the privacy of Bilba’s room with the door closed behind them did she speak again.

“Now, about this dwarf business,” said Bilba’s mother, retrieving a brush and pulling it gently through the girl’s golden curls. Bilba sat in front of her humble vanity table, which had been a gift from her father on her twentieth birthday.

“I was only dancing, mama,” Bilba murmured.

“I know,” Belladonna said softly, meeting Bilba’s gaze in the mirror. “Furthermore, I thought that it was very diplomatic of you. Maybe it wasn’t diplomatic in the way your father would have wanted, but you’re more like him than you think—in your own special way.”

Bilba turned to smile at her mother, leaning up to embrace her. They held onto each other for a long, easy moment, and when Bilba drew away she wore an expression of renewed excitement. “Oh mother, isn’t it wonderful? Dwarves in the Shire! Real life dwarves, just like in the stories that Gandalf used to tell!”

Belladonna laughed and planted a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “Yes, it’s very wonderful.”

Bilba extracted herself gently from her mother’s grip and began loosening the laces on her bodice so that she could take off the many layers of her dress. “I thought that I might bring them second breakfast tomorrow morning. Not first breakfast, of course, since I haven’t the slightest idea how late dwarves sleep, but I don’t imagine that they’ll have much food on hand in that drafty old barn.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Belladonna said approvingly. “And while you’re there, you can check on our guests’ accommodations. You know how absentminded my father can be sometimes. That old barn is certainly large enough to hold all of them, but it can get awfully nippy if a good fire isn’t kept going so we’ll have to make sure they’re given plenty of firewood. Perhaps you should also show them around town—I can only imagine they’ll be eager to do some trading at the market.”

Bilba gasped as she shimmied out of her dress, retrieved her nightgown, and slipped it over her shoulders. “Mama, do you think they’ll have any real dwarven metalwork? Gandalf used to say that they made such beautiful things—the stuff of legend!”

“Oh, I imagine they’ll have plenty of that,” Belladonna nodded. “But don’t pester them, Bilba. You saw how exhausted they were, and most of those dwarves are not eager young pups like yourself. They’ve walked a long road and it’s a longer one they’ve yet to walk, and if they don’t want you hovering over them at every turn then you’d best respect their wishes.”

Bilba’s brow knitted as though the thought hadn’t occurred to her. She lingered on the possibility as she combed her hair back with her fingers and began braiding it for bed, but Belladonna gently pushed her hands away and began braiding for her.

“I suppose you’re right,” Bilba finally conceded with a huff. “But I don’t think it’s the members of the company who wouldn’t want me around. They were ever so nice to me, mama. Even Mister Bifur, even though he’s got an axe in his head. They’re not the vicious sort of folk you hear about in the stories. I mean, they might be that—but they’re gentle folk, too. Almost hobbit-like, if you look hard enough.”

Bilba paused to watch her mother’s fond smile in the mirror, then as she reflected on the members of the company, she spoke again. “Except Thorin... I don’t imagine he’s hobbit-like at all. In fact, I can’t imagine what he _is_ like. I think he might very well be a breed all his own, the sort of powerful and mysterious thing that walked straight out of a fairytale. You remember all those heroes from the stories—the quiet warriors with stony faces and guarded hearts? He’s exactly their sort—a hero, very dangerous, but also very good in his own way.” She stopped, her fingers toying absently with the fabric of her nightgown as she recalled the dwarven leader standing in thick shadow on the deck, his chiseled face illuminated dimly by the embers of his pipe and his dark eyes glittering like jewels in a mine. “I’m not even sure he’s a living creature the likes of you and me. It’s strange to think that he was born once, and that he was a small dwarf child, and then a bright eyed youth. I can’t imagine him being any one of those things—and then turning into something so hard. Whatever could change a dwarf like that?”

When Bilba glanced up, she noticed that her mother’s smile had faded, and now she was strangely thoughtful as she focused on tying a ribbon around her daughter’s braided hair. “I’m sure I don’t rightly know,” she answered after a moment. “And I’m not sure it’s for us hobbits to know.”

Bilba was silent as she considered her mother’s words—an opportunity which Belladonna seized to excuse herself. “Goodnight, wee lamb,” she bade, pressing a kiss on top of her daughter’s curls. She slipped out and shut the door quietly behind her, and as Bilba lay down in her bed to sleep, she found her mother’s voice still ringing in her thoughts.

_I’m not sure it’s for us hobbits to know._

* * *

 

The moment that the shy morning sun peeked its head over the distant horizon, Bilba pulled herself out of bed. She was eager to impress the dwarves with her fine hobbit cooking, and could scarcely wait through first breakfast to start working. Her father seemed to be halfway convinced she’d come down with a fever overnight, but with a bit of gentle coercion from Belladonna, Bungo begrudgingly left Bilba to her cooking and excused himself to visit the neighbors.

For two long hours Bilba was a whirlwind of bustling activity, lent the occasional helping hand by her mother—and when it was nearly ten o’clock, she managed to finish up the generous feast and pack it all into hobbit-sized picnic baskets (which are, in fact, quite large). By then, of course, she herself was a sticky mess coated in a fine dusting of flour, so she quickly washed up and dressed in something presentable.

When she arrived at the barn where the dwarves were staying, her arms laden with the two heavy baskets, the large doors had been shut but she could hear the tromping of heavy boots inside. Steeling herself with a nervous breath, she knocked meekly on the door once and waited. Then, when she received no response, she tried again, knocking a little harder. A moment later, the doors cracked open and a blond head peeked outside.

“Miss Baggins!” Fili exclaimed, opening the door to let her inside.

“Good morning, Fili!” Bilba answered cheerfully, giving him a sunny smile as she moved past him into the barn.

Despite the inherent chill of the drafty old building, the dwarves had built an impressive fire in the large hearth that made it almost cozy. It looked as though the dwarves were taking stock of their supplies; odds and ends were scattered across the floor and tables, with each member of the company seeing to his own tasks. But they all turned their attention to Bilba when she whisked across the room to the tables and set down her baskets, opening them to reveal the ample store of food inside.

“I’ve brought you breakfast,” she proclaimed. Then, eyeing the stale dwindling foodstuffs down the table, she wryly added: “That is, if you haven’t already eaten.”

Almost immediately, she was surrounded by dwarves, all crowding to look at the glorious meal. Several of them started reaching for cakes and boiled eggs as she unpacked, clearly ravenous. It pleased her greatly—up until she saw Thorin push through the ranks to inspect the food.

“We cannot accept this,” he said quietly, his large fingers running over the smooth glass of a jar of homemade preserves.

“I—what?” Bilba was dumbstruck as she looked up at him, shocked and confused. “Is—is there something wrong?”

Even as she spoke, the dwarves who had taken food began sheepishly putting it back. She tried to smash down the hurt she felt as she saw her carefully prepared meal rejected by the company, and couldn’t help searching desperately for some explanation. Was it a bad time? Was it her cooking? Was it _her_?

That last possibility stung more than all the rest.

“We will not accept anyone’s charity,” Thorin said gravely, lowing his chin to look her in the eye.

The hurt came rushing up in sudden waves, and rather than show them any weakness—she’d die before she let them see her tears—she channeled her offense into stubborn indignation, and threw back her shoulders as she met Thorin’s eye. “There’s gratitude for you,” she snipped. “I slave over a hot kitchen to bring food for your half starving dwarves and you’d take the food right out of their mouths.”

“Easy, lass,” Balin soothed, holding out a hand toward her.

Bilba turned a disdainful eye to the outstretched hand and pushed her way past the crowd, moving toward the door.

“Miss Baggins,” Thorin called, giving her pause. “Your fare.” She looked over her shoulder at him and saw that he was gesturing to the food on the table, indicating that she should take it with her.

“It was a gift!” she exclaimed, her voice growing high and shrill. “Throw it to the swine if you like, I’ll not have it back in my house!” With that, she gave a furious swish of her skirts and strode out of the barn with her head held high, bloody well pleased with having held her ground.

It wasn’t until she was already halfway home that she realized tears had spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them away stubbornly, ashamed at her own childishness.

* * *

 

Bilba spent the rest of the day in the garden. Though the harvest was over for the year and there was nothing left to be done, the cool soil felt good on her hands and proved to be a welcome distraction from her embarrassment. Despite herself, she found herself wishing she could somehow make amends with the dwarves. She’d wanted so badly to be their friend—to get to know their lives and their culture, listen to their stories, learn about their crafts. Had it been selfish of her to assume they would want her food? No hobbit in his right mind would have rejected such a feast—were dwarves truly so different?

And somehow, she couldn’t seem to escape the memory of Thorin smoking his pipe behind the barn, and the way his fur pelt had smelled when he’d draped it around her shoulders. Bilba closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled the chilly autumn air, imagining for a fleeting moment that she was standing there with him again, breathing the same smoke that had escaped his lungs, stealing secret glances at him when he wasn’t looking.

“Bebother and confusticate those dwarves!” she cursed, shaking herself out of the fantasy and stabbing her spade into the soil.

“Your mother told me that I would find you out here,” greeted a familiar voice off to her side. Bilba jumped, wondering how on earth Gandalf had ever learned to move so quietly, then slumped back down and pulled her spade out of the ground.

“Yes, well, the garden needed tending,” she sniffed. They both knew from the state of the garden that it was a blatant lie.

“I thought you deserved an explanation for Thorin’s behavior this morning,” Gandalf said gently, moving toward her with the help of his staff.

Bilba shot him a venomous look and dragged herself out of the dirt. “Why should it make any difference to me what his reasons are for being so rude?”

“Because the last thing he wanted to do was upset you,” he sighed patiently. “These dwarves are of the long lost kingdom of Erebor. They have spent a very long time wandering across the land, searching for tolerance in places where they do not belong, and years of enduring the senseless cruelty of strangers have made them wary.”

“What has that got to do with my cooking?” she asked curtly. “Does he think I’m going to poison them?”

“The dwarves have been offered kindness by strangers many times in the past,” Gandalf explained, showing no hint of reserve about revealing such personal information. “At first, they accepted it with gratitude. But not all people have the generous hearts of hobbits, Bilba. Eventually, they came to discover that few will offer up their hospitality without expecting something in return. Many of those same people who gave them alms later called them thieves and miscreants, angry when they were not gifted with heaps of gold in return for their kindness. Accepting charity has brought Thorin’s people far more harm than good, and so now they always ensure they do not take anything outside of fair trade.”

Bilba felt her anger ebbing away with the explanation. In its place was a strange sense of helplessness, as though she didn’t know what to do for someone who would accept no kindness from her. “So Thorin didn’t want to indebt his company to me,” she stated flatly, turning it over in her head. “But Gandalf, I’m not trying to take advantage of them. I only want to help and make them feel welcome.”

The tall wizard gave her a warm smile, resting one large hand gently against the side of her curly head. “I know, my dear. And I told Thorin as much as soon as I returned this morning and found your breakfast. It was a wonderful gesture on your part, and you should know that they were incredibly grateful. But Thorin is very stubborn, and he refused to let any of the company touch it until it could be agreed that they would find some means of repaying you for your trouble.”

“Oh, Gandalf!” she protested. “Please don’t let them try to pay me for that meal—I would be utterly mortified.”

Even in the face of her distress, the old man chuckled. “I told them that you would have no interest in money. I imagine they’ll offer you their service instead, though it will be entirely up to you to come up with a use for thirteen dwarves.”

The girl’s expression soured. “You’re completely wretched.”

“Mmmh?” Gandalf made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a cross between surprise and amusement, his bushy eyebrows drawing upward. “Wretched? I don’t know that I’ve ever been called that before. Gandalf the Wretched. It has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?”

Despite her displeasure with the wizard, Bilba couldn’t help but laugh and latch onto his arm as they made their way back into her home together. In truth, though he planted the seeds of trouble everywhere he wandered, Gandalf was far too good a soul to stay angry for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've toyed with the notion of writing some of this from Thorin's POV, since he's so stony at this point in the fic. But I'm not sure how interesting it would be, and I wouldn't want to rehash anything you guys hadn't worked out for yourselves. What do you think?


	3. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilba pays another visit to the dwarves and gets to know the company a little better. Meanwhile, Thorin is concerned by her careless generosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus far the dwarves of the company haven't had much spotlight, so I wanted to spend some time with them. Next chapter we're finally going to get a taste of plot and maybe even Thorin's POV.
> 
> (Also, you're welcome to slap me for making Bilba and Fili completely shipable. It was an accident.)

Though Bilba was itching to go and visit the dwarves again, she was uncertain as to the propriety of doing so in light of her abrupt and less than kind departure that morning. Her better judgment insisted that she instead remain at home that night, so she busied herself with looking through her father’s books for information on dwarves. What she found was disappointingly scant: a brief disclosure on the cosmological origins of the race, a few short articles on the major dwarven kingdoms, and an introduction to some of their cultural traditions. Though she absorbed the information with a voracious curiosity, she also regarded it with a grain of skepticism; surely if she wanted information on their kind, dwarves themselves would be a far more reliable and comprehensive source than any book.

Which left her again wanting to go calling on them. By the time she pushed away her stack of research, dissatisfied with what they had to offer, it was late enough that she could retire for the evening. It was an appetizing proposition; a new day meant that her offense would have faded from their minds somewhat, and perhaps they would be more inclined to move past it.

So the next morning she woke up with a renewed sense of excitement. She tried not to seem too eager, occupying herself with chores around the house until well into the afternoon, and only when the sun was beginning to drop did she work up the courage to visit her grandfather’s old barn again. She was more nervous this time around because she didn’t know whether their kind were predisposed to holding grudges, but she was reassured by Gandalf’s faith in them. No one was a better judge of character than the old wizard, and if he was willing appeal to her on their behalf, then they probably weren’t all that bad.

This time it was Ori who answered her knock. He looked at her with wide eyes, surprised to see her standing on their threshold, so she offered him a gentle smile. “Hello, Mister Ori. I thought I would stop by for another visit, and offer my apologies for yesterday morning, if your fellows will accept them.”

“It was a very fine breakfast,” he replied, opening the door wider for her to come inside. The company was scattered in groups throughout the hall, the largest near the hearth; she noticed most of them glance up as the door opened and she stepped inside, though it was difficult for her to gauge their reactions.

“Thank you,” she bade Ori with a slight curtsy as she moved to join the group at the hearth. While she crossed the cold floor she searched the faces of the dwarves for Thorin; to her disappointment, she found that he was not present.

“Miss Baggins,” Kili greeted, standing up to offer her a chair near the fire. “We thought we’d gone and scared you off.”

“Please,” she answered with a cocky smile. “I’m not so easily frightened.”

“Lucky for us,” remarked Bofur. He had a long knife in one hand and was using the tip to dig a splinter out of his fingertip. “I never have fancied making enemies of excellent cooks.”

Bilba couldn’t help but grin at the cheeky compliment. “I’m glad that you enjoyed the food. I’d be more than happy to cook for you again sometime—provided I have Thorin’s approval.”

Fili snorted next to her. “Don’t let him fool you. However much he was pretending not to be hungry, I swear he gobbled down an entire plate of those biscuits by himself.”

“Mmm,” Kili gave a throaty purr, his lips curling in a dreamy smile. “Wonderful biscuits.”

Bilba laughed, feeling a warm glow at having been so readily welcomed by the dwarves. “I’ll be certain to bring plenty of biscuits next time.” Pausing, she licked her lips before she spoke again. “Speaking of Thorin—where is he? I had hoped to—well—apologize.”

“Bah,” grunted Dwalin from the other side of the hearth, his attention not wavering from the massive axe he was sharpening. “Don’t get yourself bent out of shape over him, lassie. Thorin’s about as warm and cuddly as a frozen catfish. He’s not given to treating you with what you’d think to be kindness, but don’t worry—he likes you well enough. He had his reasons for doing what he did.”

The statement surprised Bilba and she felt a warm blush creeping into her cheeks. Hoping no one would notice, she abruptly changed the subject. “My—I think that must be the largest axe I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Dwalin barked a laugh and finally looked up at her from beneath his heavy brow. “Well, it’s no woodsman’s axe. A bit large for any beastie you’re like to find in the Shire, mind you, but it’s got a wicked bite for when it counts.” The hobbit found herself leaning forward, fascinating by the intricate workmanship of the weapon and its keen killing edge.

“You like weapons, Miss Baggins?” Fili asked, moving to stand from his seat.

“Oi, here we go,” Bofur muttered, not looking up.

Moving to a pile of weapons next to the hearth, Fili slung a pair of scabbards over his shoulder and drew out the twin blades. Twirling each with an impressive flourish, he spun them into an upward cut in front of his chest, showing off his finesse with the pair.

“Watch it!” grumbled Dwalin, recoiling his axe protectively.

“Worried you’ll lose an ear, Mister Dwalin?” Fili laughed, turning to let the light shine on the blades and show them to Bilba. “Pretty, aren’t they?”

She hadn’t realized that she’d clapped a hand over her mouth, but when he addressed her directly Bilba slowly inched forward to inspect the weapons. “They’re beautiful,” she breathed, studying the stacked grooves on the blades and the intricate designs carved into the handle.

Fili nudged the handle of the blade toward her. “Go on, take it.”

Bilba looked up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, no—I surely couldn’t!”

Fili laughed and Kili reached across his brother’s empty seat to give her a nudge. “It isn’t going to bite!” said the younger dwarf encouragingly.

Bilba’s fingers gingerly wrapped around the handle, though Fili kept his strong grip around her tiny hand. She slowly stood from her chair as he stepped back and let go, and immediately she watched the tip of the sword droop to the floor. “Gracious, it’s heavy!”

That earned a chuckle from all the dwarves gathered around the hearth—even Bifur, who until now had remained silent beside his cousin. “Of course it’s heavy,” Fili replied with a wide grin. “It’s supposed to hurt!”

Bringing her other arm forward, Bilba hoisted the weapon with two hands so that she could look at it more closely. “I imagine that it does,” she observed, eyeing the wicked edge. “Still—it’s a beautiful weapon.”

“You’ve never held a sword in your life, have you, Miss Baggins?” asked Kili, watching the way she clumsily handled it.

“Of course not,” she replied, giving him a disapproving look as she carefully gave the sword back to Fili. “Why should I? It isn’t as though an army’s ever invaded the Shire. We’ve had nothing but peace here for as long as I can remember.”

Fili looked down at his brother as he sheathed his weapons, and Kili wore a peculiar expression in response to her words—as though the Shire were a completely foreign concept to him. “Must be nice,” he remarked after a moment, a wistful note in his voice. “Staying in one place, always having food on the table, not having to defend yourself at every turn.”

That earned a few looks from the others, but they all looked reluctant to say anything. “I—I’m sorry,” Bilba offered hesitantly, sitting back down in her chair and folding her hands meekly in her lap. “I have no idea what it must be like for you.”

“Ah, it’s not as miserable as all that,” Fili said, depositing his weapons back in their pile by the hearth and laying a reassuring hand on Bilba’s shoulder as he sat down. “It’s an interesting life, for all that it’s got its ups and downs. The good more than makes up for all the bad.”

“Why don’t you just—settle somewhere?” she asked, looking up at the dwarves. “Find peace for yourselves?”

There was an uncomfortable silence at that, and no one seemed willing to answer. After a few seconds of watching them exchange glances, she caught on to the hint. “I’m sorry—that’s none of my business. You don’t have to answer any of my questions if they get to be too personal.”

“That’s right decent of you, m’girl,” Bofur said with a kind smile. “Maybe one of these days you’ll hear all about it. But that’s Thorin’s place to say, not ours.”

Bilba averted her gaze toward the fire, recalling again the comfortable conversation she’d had with the leader of the dwarves under the mistletoe. The more she thought of him, the more fond she felt toward him—to the extent that she wondered if her feelings were inappropriate. How unfortunate that she had finally developed the beginnings of feelings for someone and he should turn out to be a dwarf; the other girls were constantly teasing that she was going to end up an old maid, and she was beginning to think that maybe they were right.

“We are glad that you came back,” Fili said quietly. When she turned to look at him, she found him studying her features and she silently prayed that he hadn’t picked up on any indication of her thoughts.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she confessed, looking down toward her hands. “You’re such an interesting lot. So much more interesting than any of the Shire folk. They don’t ever talk about swords or quests or monsters—all they care about is the health of the crops and whatever meaningless gossip they can dredge up from nowhere.” That thought led to another, and she couldn’t help but grin mischievously. “Goodness, I can only imagine the horrible things they must be saying about me after the party.”

“Because of—because of us?” Kili asked, blinking in surprise.

“Oh, yes,” she assured him brightly. “How completely audacious of me, to go dancing with a whole company of dwarves when I’ll scarcely give my hobbit suitors the time of day. I’m sure there are all sorts of nasty rumors floating around now, and I’d bet my best iron skillet that Lobelia Bracegirdle is right at the heart of them.”

“We hardly meant to cause you any trouble, Miss Baggins,” Dori said as he joined them at the hearth. “But we will happily make reparations in whatever way that we can.”

“No, no, I’ll have none of that,” Bilba declined, waving a hand at him. “You’ve all been nothing but wonderful to me since you arrived, and if those nosy old busybodies want to make something out of nothing, then they can. They’ll find something else to fuss about soon enough.”

“Hobbits are very odd,” Kili said, narrowing his eyes at the fire and then shaking his head.

She laughed, admitting to herself that from an outsider’s point of view that was probably right. “Yes, I suppose we are. But that’s what happens when you stay in one place and have nothing but peace. You haven’t got any big problems to worry about, so all your time gets filled up with little problems. As a matter of fact—hobbits aren’t much for art, I know, but if there’s one thing that they’re especially creative about, it’s making something out of nothing.”

She watched the dwarves’ expressions sour. Dwalin snickered to himself and nudged Dori with his elbow, but Dori gave him a withering look that set him back to fussing over his axe.

“Y’don’t like your suitors,” Bofur muttered, still grooming his nails with the tip of his knife.

“I’m sorry?” Bilba asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Y’ said you don’t like your suitors,” he repeated, dropping his hands to his lap and leaning forward to speak to her. “Why’s that?”

Bilba suddenly grew bashful and she smoothed her hands over her knees, avoiding looking at any of the dwarves. “I suppose… they bore me. And—just between us? I’m cleverer than the lot of them. And also… because I don’t want to settle for anything that isn’t going to make me happy.” She rubbed her lips together, staring down at the fabric of her dress. “I have plenty of reasons.”

“How do you intend to get married, then, if you can’t settle on any suitors?” Dori asked.

“Maybe I won’t,” she answered with a shrug. She thought she heard vague noises of disapproval, but the dwarves were at least polite enough not to voice their opinions directly. The silence stretched on uncomfortably long, and it was then that the barn door opened and in walked Thorin and Balin. Each of them were toting a heavy sack over their shoulder. As they moved toward one of the tables to lay down their load, Thorin started barking orders with uncompromising authority.

“Bombur—come and get this food, see that it’s properly preserved and stored. Oin, take a look at the maps that Gandalf procured and have Ori copy the most useful ones. Fili, Kili—“ Thorin searched for the young dwarves among those seated at the hearth and noticed Bilba among them for the first time. Abruptly he froze, a look of subtle surprise playing across his face before he composed himself. “Miss Baggins.”

Bilba cleared her throat and stood, slipping into an easy curtsy because it felt like the polite thing to do. “Master Oakenshield.”

Thorin suddenly looked lost, and he watched Bombur begin pulling food from the bags as though he’d completely forgotten the list of orders he’d compiled in his head. Bilba felt her stomach flutter at the prospect of speaking to him again, but in spite of her nerves she was resolute in wanting to do so. Moving away from the ring of chairs around the hearth, she approached the leader. “May I speak with you?”

Thorin looked at her for a moment as though he were just now regaining his wits, and when he replied it came just a beat too slow. “Of course,” he complied, gesturing toward the doors that led onto the deck overlooking the pond. He pulled one of the large doors open for her and followed her to the railing—but this time a section well away from the mistletoe.

“Gandalf told me why you didn’t want to accept the meal I prepared for your company,” she began, her hands fidgeting in front of her skirt. “I never meant to be presumptuous, and I certainly never meant to take advantage of you…” She had been staring off to the side of him, unwilling to meet his powerful gaze, but now she looked down toward her feet. “I don’t know what other folks have done to you in the past, and I’m sorry for any suffering you and yours have been made to endure. But that’s not how it is here in the Shire. In the Shire, people take care of one another. They protect and provide for each other—not because they expect anything in return, but because it’s the right thing to do. And anything that I do—or anything that I might do in the future, however strange or unlikely it may seem to you—only know that I’m doing it because it’s just what ought to be done.”

Thorin stood with his hands folded neatly behind his back, his shoulders straight and his face as stony as ever. She hazarded looking up at him, feeling a twinge of disappointment when his expression showed no hint of softening. She expected him to have a reply for her, either good or bad, but instead he continued to stand and stare.

“Please say something,” she begged with a tiny wince, looking away again.

“Hobbits are very strange creatures,” he offered after a moment, the rich timbre of his voice warm in the cool autumn air. “And you, Bilba Baggins, I think are the very strangest of all.”

She looked him in the eye, confused as to what he might mean by that, but he offered her no explanation. Instead, he gave her the faintest of smiles—a tiny upward curl of his lips that, for all its subtlety, seemed to set his whole face aglow. She met it with a broad grin of her own, and though she felt the urge to lunge forward and wrap him in a hug, she resisted. Surely that would be terribly improper.

“I wanted to ask,” she continued, more comfortable knowing that the air was clear between them. “May I cook for you again?”

Thorin sighed, turning away from her to look out across the pond. “Even if you are adamant that such generosity is not to be reciprocated, I am uncomfortable dipping so deeply into your family’s stores. Winter will be coming soon—you ought to be more mindful of your own well-being.”

“Bag End has the best stocked pantries in the Westfarthing,” Bilba promised him, daring to move just a little closer. “Our family has never faced a scant winter, and rest assured, it never will. We’ll be fine.”

He looked down at her, the faintest note of regret in his eyes. “In my experience, it is precisely when you feel certain that everything will be fine that things tend to go wrong.”

She laughed, turning to lean back against the wooden railing. “Do you always worry this much?” She asked. Then glancing up at the long streaks of grey in his hair, she corrected herself. “No, wait. Don’t answer that.”

She could have sworn he gave her another of his small smiles, but this one didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You have a generous heart, Miss Baggins,” he said gently. “One that could easily be taken advantage of. Promise me that you’ll never put the well-being of others above your own. Especially my dwarves.”

Bilba sobered at the request, her gaze falling away from his. “I’m afraid that’s a promise I can’t make, Master Oakenshield,” she replied, her voice quiet but firm.

He took a breath as though to persuade her otherwise, but she didn’t wait to listen. She began brushing past him to end the conversation, and to her surprise, a warm, rough hand wrapped gently around her arm. She paused and looked back at him expectantly, but he hesitated—then, apparently rethinking his words, he let go of her.

“Good evening, Miss Baggins,” he bade, nodding his head in farewell.

“Good evening, Master Oakenshield,” she returned, giving him a last smile before she moved to leave.


	4. Welcome to the Shire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 1-3 from Thorin's perspective.

Thorin was tired.

It was discouraging to think that they had only just set out on their journey, that they had so much farther to go and a dragon to slay; but he knew it wasn’t the physical trials of their quest that had him feeling drained. It was the Shire. It was the endless succession of strange places that would never be home, the years of watching others carry on with lives where they belonged and his people did not. Like everywhere else on the surface, Hobbiton was painfully dissimilar to the decadent stone halls he had once called home, and he had no doubt that its people would treat his company with the same suspicion and distrust they met wherever they happened to wander. The surface was no place for the dwarves of Erebor, and with each passing year, the burden of that knowledge pressed heavier on his weary mind.

The Shire was just another featureless stop on the long road home, and as with all other places, he could hardly wait to put it far behind him. Never mind the scenic rolling hills or the fact that, for once, nothing was too large for a dwarf. He already knew what was waiting for them at the heart of this place, and it was only a matter of counting the heartbeats before they were made to feel very unwelcome.

The cold dirt path was too hard under his aching feet; the smell of wood smoke was carried on the autumn breeze, making him long for a roaring fire where he could cradle his pipe between his lips and bury his troubled thoughts. The company was silent as they walked, and from the labor of their breath he knew they shared his weariness. Gandalf had told them that their destination wasn’t much farther, but a wizard’s opinion was rarely objective; for all Thorin knew, that could mean he planned to take them all the way to the Misty Mountains before they were given rest.

At length, Thorin ventured to look farther down the path and spotted a column of warm light spilling out from a large barn. Judging by the muffled sounds of a crowd and the dancing shadows that flickered across the light, he got the distinct impression that they were headed toward a party. The mere thought of it held very little appeal to Thorin, but since meeting Gandalf the old wizard had proven himself to be reliable time and time again. He had no choice but to trust in his guide.

The nearer they drew to the party, the more Thorin found himself staving off a deeply rooted pang of dread. The hobbits were exactly as Gandalf had described: soft, small, rotund folk with a love for food and making merry. Though they were similar in height, the difference in physique between dwarves and hobbits was painfully apparent and they were certain to be ostracized the moment they walked in the door. The dwarf prince steeled himself against what was to come next; he had learned a very long time ago to brace himself against the distrust of natives and let their intolerance wash over him like a wave over hard stone. It was the only way he could bring himself to continue wandering.

Gandalf paused outside the door to the barn and the company followed suit. When the wizard called to someone up in the tree, their lanterns automatically pivoted to reveal her. She was difficult to see in the midst of the thick tangle of branches, but Thorin caught the distinct flash of gold colored fabric, dimly conjuring memories of the thrill he’d once felt when he spied a vein of gold in a mine shaft.

The exchange was irrelevant to him, but when he saw the girl slip while trying to descend from the branches, he darted forward on instinct. She dropped easily into his arms; immediately he noticed how comfortably small she was, in the same way that it might be comfortable to cradle a kitten. She was a slight thing—barely a girl, with none of the weight or substance of a dwarf woman, and her soft features were childish like a dwarf girl’s before her bone structure thickened and her facial hair developed.

He could only observe her for a moment before she looked at him and shrieked, jumping out of his grasp. He released her without any fuss, holding up his hands to signify that he meant no harm. This was a familiar routine that he had come to expect everywhere he went. No one enjoyed seeing a strange dwarf on their doorstep.

Suddenly feeling tired again, Thorin backed away from the girl, giving her space, though an introduction from Gandalf seemed to ease her nerves somewhat. She offered a curtsy, showing that at least hobbits had some semblance of manners, but he couldn’t quite tell if she was trying to be friendly or merely polite. Likely the latter.

Gandalf and Miss Baggins led them into the barn where the festivities came to an immediate grinding halt. His dwarves stood in a defensive huddle in the middle of the floor, a swath of empty space separating them from the crowd of hobbits, and tension crackled thick like electricity in the silent air. He looked at the crowd, but he didn’t really see them; he never bothered to pay any attention to non-dwarf folk anymore, because their faces always looked the same. Guarded, distrustful, suspicious—once upon a time he had found consolation in the fact that he was a king among his people, that if they knew who he was they would give him his due respect. Those fantasies had long since lost their luster.

Then Bilba offered them food from the buffet table. Thorin opened his mouth to speak a cautionary word to his dwarves, but he didn’t have the heart to let it leave his tongue. They were weary and on the verge of starving; they had underestimated the amount of time it would take for them to reach the Shire from Ered Luin, and their supplies had run low. Though none of them had voiced a word of complaint, he could see it in their faces—a lean and hungry edge to their eyes, like dogs that had been too long neglected by their master.

A fine king he was.

He trailed behind as they attacked the leftover food, retrieving only a biscuit and a small block of cheese for himself, which he ate quietly away from the company. Some of their spirit was beginning to return as they refreshed themselves, a fact for which he was grateful—but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the solemn crowd that eyed them from all sides, whispering in each other’s ears with disapproving looks. It made Thorin’s gut lurch.

He felt his mood growing progressively darker as the evening went on, and the building tension wasn’t eased even when the musicians began to play. Then something remarkable happened—his attention was caught by a shimmer of gold that weaved through the crowd onto the open floor, and Bilba Baggins practically twirled her way to where the company was sitting. She was fairer in the warm light of the hall; the hearth and dozens of lanterns brought out the rosy blush in her cheeks and the rich tones in her curly hair. She was also spirited dancer; he’d never seen any dwarf, male or female, move to music with quite so much lively enthusiasm. She was… charming.

Watching her brought back memories of his younger days, when he had been Kili’s age. Back then, the girls who captured his affections had looked more like Bilba: still bright eyed and eager, on the cusp of blooming into a strikingly attractive woman. Those had been the days that he actually fancied the notion of romance. He had considered himself a charismatic young dwarf back then, wooing the girls when everything was innocent and exploratory and he wasn’t tangled up in political motives. Then they had all grown up. He had been groomed to one day become king, and the only women who had showed interest in him from that point forward were the ones who wanted his throne. In spite of that, he had always intended to marry and produce an heir of his own—but after Smaug attacked, those ambitions had seemed so much less important.

He watched as Bilba asked Kili to dance, who in turn looked to Thorin for approval. There was such hope in his nephew’s eyes; the boy’s pleasures had been few and far between since they had departed from Ered Luin, leaving his mother behind. Thorin gave a slight nod, and as he watched Kili stumble off after the hobbit, he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his lips and lightened his mood. The two youth were almost laughable to watch—and several members of the company _did_ laugh—but there was also something very tender about the moment, in seeing his world-weary nephew genuinely enjoy himself. Fili, too, was eager to impose on the revelry; just as Kili seemed to be getting a hang of the hobbit dance, the older of the boys cut in and tried his hand at it. Eventually, all the other members of the company began taking turns. With the hobbits now occupying the formerly empty dance floor, the dwarves seemed eager to leave their burdens behind and enjoy the party.

Thorin felt his pent up frustration and anger beginning to ebb away. That was a very curious thing; ordinarily his mood remained foul for the duration of his stay in these places. It was a welcome change.

Unwilling to make a fool of himself trying to dance, he slipped away from the company and lit his pipe in the safety of the back deck, letting himself sink into shadow and exhale his worries with the coils of smoke that rose into the air. The chill of autumn helped to clear his head, soothing the ache in his shoulders and the angry knot in his stomach. He had never been as active a partier as his peers, like Dwalin; eventually he always found himself slipping away to a quiet corner, preferring peace and solitude to madness.

Though most nights he found his mind straying back to their perilous quest, tonight he let himself venture further back into memory. He recalled again the days of his youth, when he had been the one to jump up and glide to music with a pretty girl in his arms; he felt like it had been ages since then. When had he gotten so old?

He lost track of time as he smoked his pipe, but when Bilba retreated from the party and leaned against one of the pillars in the railing, he realized he must have been absent for quite some time. Her skin was gleaming with perspiration from the exertion of dancing with every member of the company, her loose curls clinging to the wet skin. With her head tipped back and her chest heaving to catch her breath, she looked older—more like a woman. The shine of sweat gleaming in the cleft between her breasts drew his attention momentarily to their very mature size and shape; with her eyes closed and her lips perched open just so, her expression was almost sensuous. A giddy smile tugged at her features and he found himself caught in the gentle curve of her mouth, hanging on the way her entire person seemed to light up along with it.

His response to seeing her there was very unexpected and, more than that, _very_ inappropriate. Suddenly ashamed of letting his thoughts stray, he cleared his throat, gently informing her of his presence. Her surprise was unexpectedly polite; she appeared completely unruffled by the prospect of sharing her sanctuary with him.

The conversation that followed was easier than it should have been. He usually struggled to talk with non-dwarves, finding that not only did they have little in common with him but they also had little desire to speak with him. That wasn’t the case with Bilba. She was painfully earnest, readily spilling the desires of her heart to a stranger in the shadows of a harvest party; had he met her in his youth, things would have gone very differently. As it was, however, he couldn’t bring himself to offer encouragement, knowing the disillusionment that would inevitably follow if she ever got the adventure she was longing for. He couldn’t be anything except honest.

Even in the wake of his gentle admonition, the air was comfortable between them. When he noticed a chill beginning to prickle at her skin, he shrugged off his fur pelt without thinking and wrapped it around her tiny shoulders. After a long day of travel the cold didn’t bother him, and there was something very pleasant about the way she looked wrapped up in his mantle.

Soon enough they were joined by Gandalf, who seemed particularly interested in a sprig of something called mistletoe that had been nailed to the post over Bilba’s head. Before he could make any inquiry as to the significance, the hobbit had unwrapped herself from his fur, and then—

As he moved to retrieve his pelt from her she suddenly leaned up and kissed him. It took him a long moment to comprehend what was happening; he froze as she drew close, his entire body stiffening when her lips pressed against his. The unexpected touch was jarring, sending a shock through his system, but by the time he caught on she had already pulled away. And then, before he could ask, she ran back to the party.

Thorin stood for a long moment, running over the kiss again and again in his head, trying to make sense of it. Unfortunately, there was no sense to be made.

“Gandalf,” he finally said, looking over his shoulder at the wizard. “Is there something I should know?”

The old man gave a throaty chuckle that made Thorin’s gut roil with embarrassment. “Nothing to worry about, Thorin, I assure you. Just an innocent little tradition among the Shirefolk that you’d do well to remember.”

“ _Which is?_ ” the dwarf pursued, his patience dwindling.

“Mistletoe, my dear boy!” Gandalf gestured with his pipe toward the sprig of round leaves and white berries tacked to the post. “Couples who have been caught standing under mistletoe together are obligated to kiss.”

Thorin sighed, considerably less amused than his companion as he wound his mantle back around his shoulders and brought his pipe to his lips. “Something like that would cause a scandal in Ered Luin.”

“Come now, there’s no harm done,” Gandalf soothed, still smiling. “Besides—I’d be willing to wager it’s been many years since you had a young girl kiss you like that.”

Thorin shot him a withering glare in response, discouraging further comment, and Gandalf was duly silenced despite the pleased smile that remained on his face. The comment rang true in Thorin’s ears, however, and he found himself dwelling on the thought. It was true that he couldn’t actually recall the last time he had been kissed; that fact was driven further home by the strange ghost of her lips lingering on his, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost taste her breath again.

Oh, to be young.

* * *

 

The dwarves were generously given that same barn to use as living quarters during their stay in Hobbiton, since there wasn’t an inn large enough to accommodate them. The Thain of the village was an old friend of Gandalf’s, which Thorin assumed had been very helpful in winning them some semblance of hospitality.

They retired almost immediately after the party, and in the morning, they set to cleaning and organizing the space. It wasn’t much for comfort—the walls were thin and drafty, the space open and communal, and the doors were ready to fall off of their hinges. Nonetheless, it was better than sleeping on the cold ground. Once their quarters were arranged, they started taking stock of their supplies, compiling lists of things that they would need to acquire before they departed Hobbiton. That was when Bilba came to visit.

Thorin was as surprised as the others when she sashayed across the room with two massive baskets on her arms, and moreso when she began withdrawing food from them. His company was eager to indulge, as the meal looked far more appetizing than the crusty bread and tough, dry meat they had left in their stores, but this time, he had put down a firm hand.

“We cannot accept this,” he said quietly, reluctant to meet Bilba’s eye. He knew it was going to hurt her.

“I—what? Is—is there something wrong?” He hazarded a glance at her face and immediately regretted it; he felt as though he’d just kicked a puppy. Worse still were the looks of hunger and longing on his companions’ faces. They were very noble about trying to conceal their disappointment, but he knew them too well to be fooled.

“We will not accept anyone’s charity,” he explained, his voice cool and steady for all that the words felt bitter in his mouth. He was accustomed to delivering unwelcome news, and he had become familiar with the taste.

He _had_ expected tears and a fit—what he _hadn’t_ expected was the fiery temper that suddenly reared its head. “There’s gratitude for you,” she snapped. “I slave over a hot kitchen to bring food for your half starving dwarves and you’d take the food right out of their mouths.” She held her chin high as she chewed him out, her feminine voice lashing sharp as a whip. And to his surprise, she hit right on the mark; her words stung bitterly.

Balin saw the effect she had on Thorin and stepped forward to try and ease the tension. “Easy lass,” he cooed, holding out a hand toward her as though she were a rabid animal. To everyone’s surprise, she only spared him a cold look before pushing her way through their ranks.

She intended to leave the food behind.

Thorin felt a wave of frustration well up in him and called after her. “Miss Baggins,” he said, his voice testy. “Your fare.”

“It was a gift!” she cried in response, the strength of her indignation surprising him. “Throw it to the swine if you like, I’ll not have it back in my house!”

Her departure carried with it a tone of challenging finality, and Thorin didn’t have the heart to go after her and drag her back into the barn. As she left the dwarves standing foolishly in silence, he turned his attention back to the carefully prepared meal, struggling with indecision.

“We’ll pay her back, laddie,” Balin assured him. “Don’t you worry.”

“ _No_.” Thorin was surprised by the force in his own voice, and he didn’t miss the way several of his companions stepped back. “We have offended the kin of our host and driven away the one woman who has offered us any kindness in this place.” He was painfully aware of the fact that even though he said _we_ , what he actually meant was _he_. “We should expect to be run out of town before the fall of evening.”

“That isn’t going to happen, I assure you,” called a voice from the open door. Gandalf came striding into the barn, his posture authoritative in spite of his age. “Hobbiton is unlike any other village you’ve visited, Thorin Oakenshield, and if you truly think so little of its inhabitants then I suggest that you reappraise your understanding of hobbits. They’re a touch suspicious of outsiders, that’s true. But they are good folk with kind hearts, and they won’t be driven to cruelty so easily.”

“I don’t imagine we’ll be hearing from Miss Baggins again,” Thorin countered bitterly. “Knowing that she is offended I cannot in good conscience accept this meal, either by charity or by exchange.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about Bilba,” Gandalf replied, his tone growing gentler as he drew near to the company. “She’s a flighty little thing, and given to her mother’s temper on occasion. But she has a heart of gold. Let me go and speak to her, and I promise you that she’ll harbor no ill will.”

Thorin sighed, glancing again at the untouched meal, and someone’s stomach rumbled loudly.

“Even if she insisted on staying angry,” Gandalf continued, “I can promise that she would much rather you ate her food and enjoyed it than let it go to a terrible waste. She will _not_ take it back.”

“We will make a fair payment to her for her efforts.”

“Hobbits have very little use for money. If you mean to offer recompense, you shall have to find something else.”

Thorin looked around at his dwarves, taking comfort in their assuring looks. They were confident that they would find a way to repay her kindness, and that was enough to convince him. Stepping aside, he gestured for them to have at the food.

“A wise decision,” Gandalf said with an approving smile.

* * *

 

“I hope that Gandalf convinces Miss Baggins to forgive us like he said he would,” Kili remarked conversationally as the company scrubbed at their laundry in their long clothes. Though he feigned a passive disinterest, the comment had all the subtlety of a mountain troll. Thorin saw several of the others give him knowing looks, and Dwalin grumbled something.

“Got a taste for the hobbit girls, Kili?” Nori asked with a wry grin.

“They’re not that bad,” Kili countered defensively. “A bit on the small and soft side, but—almost dwarfish, if you squint your eyes a little bit.”

Dwalin snorted. “She’s a wee babe, barely off of the tit,” he complained, showing no qualms about switching abruptly from talking about hobbits in general to talking about Bilba Baggins specifically. They all knew she was what this was really about, after all. “She’s got so little meat on her bones she’d slip right through your fingers the minute you tried to grab hold of her.”

“Not all of us handle women like a meat grinder, Dwalin,” Fili responded sourly. “Kili’s right. Hobbits aren’t dwarves, but they’re far preferable to humans and elves.”

“Besides, she’s got a very nice smile,” Kili continued, his tone softening just a little. “I’ve never seen a dwarf smile like that.”

“Shulukikiki hyakhund ra turg,” chimed Bifur, eyeing Kili. Thorin’s nephew promptly choked on the air he was breathing.

“She’s an excellent _cook_ , yes,” Dori added pointedly, trying to pull the comment back in the direction of socially appropriate.

“Let the lad have his fancies,” Balin interjected diplomatically, steering their conversation toward a close. “We’ll be leaving the Shire soon enough, and then it won’t matter.”

“Balin is right, Kili,” called a voice from the door. Gandalf stepped into the barn from the cool twilight, and Thorin was left wondering how the wizard managed such impeccable timing. “There’s no harm in finding Miss Baggins attractive. She’s considered to be quite fair among her kind. Besides,” Gandalf added with a sly glance at Thorin, “Something tells me that your uncle might agree with you.”

That drew the attention of the entire company toward Thorin, and he suddenly felt very uncomfortable under the weight of their stares. He shot a burning look of displeasure toward the wizard before standing up to excuse himself. “This conversation is over,” he growled in a tone that didn’t invite argument, then stalked away.

* * *

 

The next morning Thorin set out with Balin to purchase supplies for their journey. The Shire was difficult to navigate—all winding paths that meandered between the rolling hills, and they managed to get lost several times before they finally located the market. By that time, Thorin’s mood had grown foul and Balin ended up doing most of the bartering. Fortunately, they had plenty of gold to purchase their goods; many of the merchants were inclined not to deal with the dwarves, but they changed their tune quickly once they caught sight of the money.

It took the two of them most of the day to track down everything they needed, and more than once they were sent trekking to one end of Hobbiton or another to locate the right vendors. Once they were finished, they met with Gandalf at the home of the Old Took, where he was waiting with a handful of maps relevant to the course of their journey. Thorin gave his host generous thanks, then he and Balin started back toward the large barn, pleased with the day’s bounty.

When they arrived, most of the company were lazing around the hearth. Thorin didn’t hesitate to start ordering them about as soon as he’d set down his load. “Bombur—come and get this food, see that it’s properly preserved and stored. Oin, take a look at the maps that Gandalf procured and have Ori copy the most useful ones. Fili, Kili—“

He paused as he spotted his nephews sitting at the hearth—and beside them, Bilba Baggins. Admittedly, seeing her among the company was a shock to him; he hadn’t expected Gandalf’s talk with her to accomplish anything more than a cool indifference toward the dwarves.

“Miss Baggins,” he greeted. His voice felt strangely devoid of emotion, as he hadn’t quite sorted through what he was feeling just yet. It was warm and almost nervous, and that fact made him very distrustful of himself.

“Master Oakenshield,” she greeted, dipping into a curtsy. He saw her start to move toward him, and he glanced toward the food that Bombur was unloading from the sacks, somehow unable to recall the orders of business he’d compiled throughout the day. He felt the ghost of Bilba’s lips on his, then she was standing in front of him.

“May I speak with you?” she asked. He struggled to catch his bearings, stubbornly focusing his mind on her words.

“Of course,” he answered, moving to escort her outside. To his relief, they both pointedly avoided the mistletoe.

What followed was, shockingly, an apology. Her words were the very last thing he might have expected, and as they drew to a close, he was left speechless. Hers was the most earnest, naïve benevolence he had ever encountered—to the extent that he had long ago stopped believing such a thing existed in anyone except children. It was a painful reminder of just how young she really was, for all that her full figure and tempting lips might suggest otherwise. He struggled to reconcile the two sides of her—the innocent child and the lusty young woman, when the fragility of one pushed him away and the allure of the other drew him in.

“Please say something.” He was drawn back into the present by her quiet, begging voice, and he struggled to find his words.

“Hobbits are very strange creatures,” he offered finally, disappointed in his own lack of creativity. “And you, Bilba Baggins, I think are the very strangest of all.”

She didn’t seem to know what to take from that, so he offered her a small smile—just enough to reassure her of his good intentions. It was a refreshing moment when they finally cleared the air, but the charm of it was lost when she broached the subject of bringing more food. He struggled to turn her down when she looked up at him with such sweet, hopeful blue eyes, so he did his best to voice his concerns to her. Of course they had no effect, but at least he had tried.

Then she was moving away from him. His hand reached out and latched around her arm instinctively, before he could register the movement, and he was left with nothing to say to her when she looked back expectantly. So he released her, hoping he hadn’t come across as too forward.

“Good evening, Miss Baggins.”

“Good evening, Master Oakenshield.” The smile that she gave him over her shoulder remained fixed in his mind for some time after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shulukikiki hyakhund ra turg-- Khuzdul for "It wets the tooth and beard," typically reserved for appetizing food. 
> 
> A few more things here.
> 
> One, someone slap me because I'm tempted to write something involving young Bilba and young Thorin, probably along the lines of Gandalf bringing her and her mother to visit Erebor before its fall. Might end up being a ficlet I write on this side of this one after finals are over.
> 
> Two, don't expect this momentum to keep up. As I've just mentioned, I'm heading into finals week and it's gonna be hell.
> 
> Three, I was incredibly intimidated to write Thorin but this chapter was actually a lot of fun and I think it offered a lot of valuable insight into his character. At the very least, it was helpful for me.
> 
> Four, this chapter is quite long and I had hoped to move the plot forward with Thorin's POV, but I didn't quite get that far, so you can expect more of Thorin in the next chapter.
> 
> Five, hopefully there wasn't too much rehashing going on here. I tried to limit myself, I really did.


	5. First Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter is coming.
> 
> (Sorry.)

When Thorin awoke a week later, he could feel that something was wrong.

The air was colder than usual, even for the drafty old barn, and the light that flooded in from the high windows near the roof was hazy and dim, as though the sun were concealed by a thick blanket of cloud cover. Light clouds, not dark.

The information finally clicked in his head and spurred him into action. He jumped up from his bedroll on the floor and rushed to the front doors of the barn, throwing them wide open.

It was snowing.

The company stirred from their sleep behind him, grumbling at the rude awakening, then they froze when they caught sight of the thick white flakes drifting to the ground in flurries. Thorin’s shoulders fell by a fraction as he turned over in his mind the implications of the sudden shift in weather.

“It looks like we’d best be for bunkering down in the Shire,” said Oin behind him.

Thorin sighed, casting a begrudging look over his shoulder. “We’d best be,” he agreed, his tone irritable. Hauling the doors closed again, he moved back to his things to dress for the day. He needed to have a word with their host.

The dwarves were uncharacteristically quiet as they gradually roused themselves and set about their routine. Eventually, a familiar knock on the door signaled the arrival of Miss Baggins; she was one of the very few visitors they entertained in the barn, and she was by far the most frequent. Balin moved to let her in, and what Thorin had intended to only be a glance in her direction turned into a long look as she stepped inside. Despite the weather, she looked beautiful; dressed in sky blue, she had draped a grey cloak over her shoulders and wrapped a white shawl around her head. Her smile was wider than usual, for this morning she was toting her familiar pair of large picnic baskets.

“First snow of the season!” she remarked cheerfully as she brought her baskets to a table and began to unload a hearty meal. “I hope I haven’t come too early—it’s only that it was already snowing by the time I woke up this morning, and I was so excited I couldn’t bring myself to go back to bed.”

“You’re just fine, dearie,” Balin assured her. Nonetheless, she seemed to pick up on the stormy mood that had overtaken the room, and she looked uncertainly at the members of the company.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s snowing,” grunted Dwalin. “Which means we aren’t going to be leaving the Shire anytime soon.”

Bilba struggled momentarily with this news, wavering between happiness and sympathy. “I’m—I’m sorry that you can’t continue your quest,” she finally said, “but I’ll be very glad to have you here.”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it, lass,” Bofur comforted as he moved to take advantage of her fine breakfast. “We were planning on bunkering down for the winter somewhere anyhow, may as well be the Shire.”

“We had hoped to make it a little farther east before the first snow of the season set in, but it doesn’t matter now,” Dori chimed in, following Bofur.

Thorin had remained quiet until this point, not wanting to spoil Bilba’s cheer with his own ornery disposition. As it was, however, he had business to attend to. “Miss Baggins,” he finally said, moving toward her. “Does Hobbiton have a forge?”

The question seemed to take her off her guard and it took her a moment to answer. “No, it doesn’t. We don’t have much use for metalwork, really, so most of what we need we get from Bree.”

Thorin grunted, looking at the large hearth over his shoulder. “I see,” was all the reply he gave her, offering no further explanation. He gathered a few morsels for a short breakfast, devouring them quickly as he donned his coat and cloak, and without another word he swept out of the barn and headed toward the hobbit hole of the Old Took.

* * *

 

“You want to do what to my barn?” sputtered Gerontius Took, his bushy eyebrows knitting together as he leaned forward to regard Thorin. Despite his age, his mind and senses were impressively sharp.

“Convert it into a forge,” Thorin repeated calmly, his hands clasped in front of him. “Just for the winter, so that my company has the means to earn its keep during our stay. You will be paid for the time we spend on your property, and we will offer up whatever service we can to the people of your village.”

The eyebrows shot up again and the Thain leaned back, carefully considering the proposal. “And this, ah, _forge_ business—just how extensive will the renovations be?”

“Minimal,” Thorin assured him. “Just a few small modifications to the hearth to allow for better control over the fire. We will perform the labor ourselves at no cost to you, and we will provide our own tools and supplies.”

“Mmmh?” Gerontius gave a considering hum, chuckling at Thorin’s authoritative handling of the negotiation. “And who were you planning on selling your goods to, exactly? Fine craftsman though dwarves may be, the Shire has little need for the great weapons of legend.”

“True,” Thorin agreed. It was a point he had already taken into consideration. “But Breeland is close by—just over a day’s journey, and I have been told that its tradesmen pass through the Shire frequently. Hobbits may care little for the metalwork of dwarves, but I am well acquainted with the price my craft can fetch among men. I assure you, we will have no shortage of business.”

“It sounds as though you’ve got this all figured out, master dwarf,” the Old Took observed with a smile, glancing toward his wife across the room. She had one of their great grandchildren bouncing on her knee, while the toddler’s mother busily embroidered a small stack of handkerchiefs. Thorin spared the woman only a glance—just long enough to note that she had the same delicate features as Bilba, though they were somewhat more weathered.

“Very well, you may do as you please,” Gerontius finally conceded, settling back in his chair. “That old barn doesn’t go to much use anyhow, and we can always find somewhere else to host the Yule celebration.”

“Another party?” Thorin asked warily.

“Oh, yes—the largest of the year, next to midsummer’s Lithe. I’m surprised that my little Bilba hasn’t mentioned it to you, with all the time she’s been spending around you dwarves.”

“It must have slipped her mind.” Thorin moved to don his cloak, easily guessing what direction the conversation was headed next. He knew he wasn’t going to avoid it, but that made him no less eager to leave.

“Speaking of Bilba,” Gerontius said, putting a great deal of weight on his tone, and Thorin was forced to pause and look at him. “I trust that you’ll keep that company of yours on their very best behavior so long as she takes a shining to them. I’ll have no funny business, do you hear?”

“Of course,” Thorin acknowledged with a nod. There was a great deal more he might have said, were he younger and rasher—choice words regarding the honor of his company and their reliability, but he knew that to a stranger they would only fall on deaf ears.

“I suspect her father is on the verge of having a conniption fit in light of her behavior, but the girl has her mother’s spirit—which is nothing to be trifled with.” Gerontius smoothed his hands over his thighs thoughtfully, a smile slowly curling its way across his wrinkled face. “Poor Bungo likely would have put a stop to her visits if he thought she’d listen. But we Tooks always have learned better by acting than by listening, and there’s nothing for it but to let the girl do as she will and watch the pieces fall accordingly.”

Thorin was beginning to suspect that the Old Took’s words were less for the dwarf’s benefit than his own, but he took heed regardless. “If it will serve as any consolation, Gandalf has kept a close watch over your granddaughter, and nothing has occurred that has not been met with his approval,” Thorin said, reflecting briefly on their kiss under the mistletoe. Technically, what he said was true. It was Gandalf’s fault that the girl had so much as entertained the notion.

Never mind the completely inappropriate feelings Thorin had toward the girl, which he had spent the past week trying to tamp down.

It was an uncomfortable thought here in the presence of her grandfather; fortunately, it didn’t look as though any indication of it had crossed his face. The Old Took was nodding, apparently in agreement with Thorin’s remark. “I suppose you’re right!” he said approvingly, and Thorin felt a stab of guilt in his belly. “Gandalf will take good care of my girl, I’m sure.”

Pulling up his hood against the weather, Thorin took that as indication that he was free to go. “By your leave,” he said politely, and at Gerontius’ nod, departed from the home.

* * *

 

By the time that Thorin returned to the barn, breakfast had been taken care of and Bilba was still there with the company. She was seated on the edge of the hearth with Kili; Thorin did a double take when he noticed that her small body was straddled between his nephew’s legs, and she was leaning quite intimately against his chest. Under the pretense of his instructing her on how to properly sharpen a knife, if the implements shared between their hands was any indication. Thorin had to make a concerted effort not to roll his eyes at that, feeling less than amused by his nephews’ unsubtle flirtations with the hobbit.

When he stripped off his cloak and tossed it aside, it was with perhaps more force than was entirely necessary. His mood was still dour from the onset of the winter season, and he had little tolerance for any antics.

“Dwalin, Dori, Gloin, Fili, Kili,” he barked, shooting a livid glance toward his nephews at the hearth, “gather your things. We’re leaving for Bree immediately.”

It was very little in the way of words, but the entire company seemed to pick up on the fact that he wasn’t in a trifling mood. Kili gently excused himself from Bilba and moved toward his things, strapping his gear on sheepishly.

“Uncle?” Fili questioned, hoping for some explanation.

“We have business to attend if we are to stay in the Shire for the season,” was all that Thorin offered in reply. He moved toward one of the tables, watching as Bombur dutifully filled a pack with enough rations for the short trip.

“ _Uncle?_ ” Bilba repeated, surprise in her tone. “Thorin is your--?”

“Of course,” Kili confirmed, as though it ought to have been obvious. “And Oin and Gloin and Balin and Dwalin are our cousins. Ori, Dori, and Nori too, but… distantly.”

“I—“ Bilba paused, as though processing the information. “I had no idea.”

“It makes little difference to you,” Thorin said, eyeing her from the side. She seemed surprised to hear him speak; she regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then moved to retrieve her things and join him next to the table.

“I suppose I should leave you to your business,” Bilba said, draping her cloak around her shoulders and wrapping the white shawl around her head. Thorin gave no reply, turning his attention back toward Bombur.

“Thorin?” she implored meekly, stepping a little closer. He glanced over his shoulder at her, noting how nicely the shawl framed her features. He wasn’t certain when she’d stopped calling him Master Oakenshield, but he wasn’t entirely opposed to the familiarity, even if she had already shown that she far preferred to be _familiar_ with Kili. “Good luck, whatever it is that you’re doing. And… be careful.”

Thorin sighed, feeling his temperamental resolve crumble under the scrutiny of her big blue eyes. “Thank you, Miss Baggins. We will return in a few days’ time.”

Bilba gave him a warm smile and curtsied, then retrieved her baskets and departed for the comfort of Bag End. Thorin was left to wonder how she had circumnavigated his temper so deftly; it was fortunate that none of his company were possessed of such lovely eyes, lest they attempt to use similar wiles against him.

“As for the rest of you,” he began, shaking himself free of such thoughts and addressing the rest of the company, “See to the alterations to turn this hearth into a forge. Do what you can with what you have—we will bring the rest of what is needed when we return from Bree.”

Bifur and Bofur were the quickest to respond, seeing about the task almost immediately. Oin and Balin joined them in short order, contributing their respective knowledge. They were dedicated to the task, of that Thorin had no doubt; when they returned from Bree, they would have the beginnings of a forge already waiting for them.

They departed as soon as they were ready, renting two ponies and a sturdy cart. Purchasing the supplies and tools would dip extensively into their coffers, Thorin knew, but he was confident they would be able to make it back—along with the necessary profit to compensate their hosts for their trouble.

And there was a small part of him that was eager to work at the forge again. A strange frustration had built up tension in his shoulders this week, and putting hammer to anvil sounded like a good way to work it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relatively short chapter tonight, wrapping up the plot business that we didn't quite get to in the last chapter. Are you excited to see the dwarves set up a forge in Hobbiton? Because I am.
> 
> For those who expressed interest in a ficlet with Bilba and young Thorin in Erebor, I've posted a short beginning to that here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1070387
> 
> Annnd. Coming from the Tumblr RP community, I habitually try to find a faceclaim for most of my characters, and I've finally found one that fits my vision of Bilba. Freya Mavor has a decidedly hobbitish look about her, with just a hint of the fairie blood Tooks are rumored to have, and I'm fairly certain her freckles could kill. But that's only for anyone who's interested in a little more visual clarification-- I encourage everyone to stick with their own mental image of Bilba, since I know how jarring it can be when you're presented with something that doesn't quite match up to that.


	6. The Very Forward Miss Baggins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forge begins operation and Bilba invites Thorin to a dinner with her family.

Thorin and the dwarves who had gone to Bree returned after four days. By that time, the ones who had been left behind had performed what modifications they could to the hearth, preparing it for the inclusion of a tuyere. Bilba had no prior knowledge of the process of smithing, and most of what the dwarves explained to her went far over her head; but by her understanding, the modifications were primarily to allow for careful control over the fire.

“It’s all about shaping the fire _just right_ ,” Oin had told her. “So you can heat the metal to the exact temperature you need with as little contamination as possible.”

“Mind you, this old barn is hardly ideal for metalworking,” Balin had chimed in, eyeing the place with disapproval. “But any dwarf worth his salt can make a good fire anywhere. It’ll do. It’ll be nothing like the forges of Erebor, but—it’ll do.”

With the supplies and equipment brought by Thorin and the others, the barn was transformed into a forge impossibly fast. For the first time, she witnessed firsthand how industrious the dwarves could be when they set their minds to a task; in another week, they were ready to begin production.

For as long as she lived, Bilba would never forget the first time she visited the fully operational forge. She’d seen a smithy once or twice when traveling with her mother, but there was something strangely salient about the sound of metal on metal ringing out through the still winter air of Hobbiton. She heard it long before she arrived at the barn, only growing more and more curious with each step she took. The dwarves had talked about nothing but metalwork for the past week and a half—she was eager to see it for herself.

When she knocked on the barn door, it didn’t seem as though anyone heard her over the clamor within, so she gingerly pushed the large door open and let herself inside. The dwarves were hard at work; she could see that they had formed an efficient collective of specialized tasks. She saw Oin and Gloin tending the fire, while Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur were carefully putting the finishing touches on pieces that were beginning to cool. Near the fire were three anvils, though at the moment only one was in use.

And that was when Bilba saw Thorin.

The powerful strikes that had heralded the operation of the forge had clearly been his. Every swing of his hammer was a potent blow that shaped the glowing metal with ease, gradually lengthening it from a shapeless bulk to a straight shaft. At some point he must have discarded his shirt; he stood with his torso stripped bare as he hammered at the anvil, weathered skin streaked with soot and gleaming with sweat. Bilba knew that it was improper for her to stare, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him; she’d seen half-naked males before when the boys went swimming in the lake in summer, but they were nothing like Thorin. Even the strongest hobbits were soft and spindly by comparison to the dwarf. In the hot light of the fire, she could see the clear definition of his thick musculature, which flexed ever so nicely as he hoisted the hammer and delivered his powerful blows; she drank in the sight of his barrel shaped chest, dusted with a trail of black hair that led down over his toned belly and— _further south_. She schooled her gaze and finally looked away.

She could feel her cheeks burn with embarrassment over her own reaction to seeing Thorin work. She’d never had quite such a visceral response to the sight of a male before, and she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with herself. She considered trying to slip away before she was noticed, but then Dori caught sight of her and hustled over to where she stood by the door.

“Miss Baggins! How delightful that you could join us today! As you can see, we are already hard at work producing metal goods for the community at large.” Dori wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the fire so as to show off their operations.

“Fili and Kili have spent most of the day making nails,” Dori explained, gesturing to an almost full box on the floor. “Those always sell quite nicely, especially when the first snow is so heavy.” The boys grinned at Bilba from where they were taking a break.

“And here Bofur is just filing down some handles which I did myself this morning.” Bilba could see that Dori was brimming with pride over the elegantly twisted iron, and when Bofur glanced up to shoot her a wink and a smile she couldn’t help but laugh.

“These are lovely, Dori,” she remarked, admiring the craftsmanship.

“Bah, this is nothing,” grunted Dwalin from behind them. Despite his characteristically gruff demeanor, his tone almost sounded cheerful. “Any apprentice in Erebor who’s got a feel for the hammer can twist iron like that by the end of his first week. You want to see something really beautiful, lass, just wait until Thorin finishes that blade he’s working on.”

That unavoidably drew attention back to Thorin. She glanced sheepishly at his naked back, just as deliciously corded with muscle as his front. She tried to banish the thought as he set his work aside and turned to her, hooking his thumbs in his broad belt.

“Miss Baggins, I apologize for the mess,” he said with a polite nod. “We hadn’t expected you to be visiting today, and we’re still sorting ourselves out.”

“Oh, it’s—it’s no muscle,” Bilba stammered to his chest, then her eyes widened in horror and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “Trouble! It’s no trouble!” A chorus of laughter followed her as she abruptly turned and shuffled away from the dwarves, mortified. She could hear Dori muttering a few sharp words, then she heard a smack. A moment later, a hand rested on her shoulder.

“I apologize for the immodesty,” Thorin said as Bilba turned toward him. He had put a shirt on, thankfully, which somewhat eased the task of not letting his physique distract her. “As I mentioned, we weren’t expecting you to visit today.”

“I know—I told you that I probably wouldn’t,” she admitted guiltily. “And I really should have at least waited for someone to answer the door, but it’s terribly cold outside—and very, very warm in here,” she added, biting her lip as she eyed his shirt. “And anyway, I was only stopping by for a moment to ask you something.”

Thorin folded his arms across his chest, giving her a considering look. “Yes? What is it?”

“Well, you see, my parents are very curious to meet you,” she explained, peeking up at him from beneath her lashes. “And we were wondering if you would like to come to Bag End for supper this evening. That is—I wish we could invite the entire company, but I’m not certain that our home would accommodate them all. And also… that might be just a little overwhelming for my parents. To have all of the dwarves there at once. I think my father would have a conniption.”

A small smile crossed Thorin’s face and he glanced over his shoulder. The others were already busy getting on with their tasks. “We have a considerable amount of work do today, but I would not wish to disgrace the family of my host. You can inform your parents that I will be there.”

Bilba smiled, reaching for Thorin’s hand and grasping it between her own without thinking. Even covered in soot, his warm and calloused skin felt strangely nice against her own smooth palms. He looked down at her, and though his expression was subtle she could have sworn she saw surprise on his face. “I’m so very glad, Thorin,” she said warmly. “And I look forward to seeing you tonight.”

His free hand joined the other to squeeze hers affectionately, then he pulled away and returned to his anvil. Bilba watched the dwarves work for a moment, then started toward the door.

“Miss Baggins!” called Kili. “You aren’t staying?”

“No, Kili, I’m afraid not,” she replied over her shoulder, unable to stop herself from smiling at the disappointment in his voice. “I have things I must do. I’ll come back soon, I promise.”

* * *

 

“Now here’s a funny thing,” Belladonna said wryly from the stove. “I’ve never known you to be nervous, Bilba. Whatever’s gotten into you?”

“Nervous?” Bilba asked innocently, glancing up from the vegetables she was chopping.

“You’ve dropped two spoons and cut your finger,” her mother replied matter-of-factly, turning toward Bilba and folding her arms. “I’m almost beginning to wonder if you’re doing more harm than good helping me with supper.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilba apologized, not meeting her mother’s eye. “It’s just that—well, he’s rather special company, isn’t he? It isn’t as though we have dwarves over for supper every day.”

“No, but you’re over at that barn often enough.” Belladonna turned back to the pot she was stirring, her mind elsewhere. “I should think you and him would be as cozy as two peas in a pod by now.”

“Thorin’s not exactly the cozy type,” Bilba defended meekly.

“Well, I suppose your father would be grateful for that.”

At the front of the house a heavy knock sounded on the door, and Bilba almost cut herself again when she started.

“Gracious, lamb, you’re going to hurt yourself with that knife,” tutted Belladonna, ushering Bilba away from the vegetables and taking away the knife. “You go let our guest in, then, and I’ll finish this up. Your father will keep him company while you set the table. And do try not to break anything, would you?” Bilba left the kitchen like a dog with her tail between her legs, pulling off her apron as she moved to answer the door.

For all that Thorin might have been covered in sweat and grime earlier, he had cleaned up exquisitely for supper. He gave her a smile as he beat the snow off of his boots and moved to step inside.

“This is a charming home,” he observed as he removed his winter cloak. Bilba took it from him dutifully, hanging it on a peg near the door.

“My father built it for my mother as a wedding gift,” she explained warmly. Her parents’ marriage was her favorite love story, and she always recalled it with fondness.

“She must have been very pleased.” His words hung in the air for a moment as Bilba tried to think what she ought to do next, but Bungo rescued her from her nerves.

“Ah! Mister Oakenshield, so glad that you could join us!” her father called, moving into the hallway from the parlor. “Come in, have a seat, warm up! I believe the girls are almost ready with supper.”

Bungo pulled Thorin off toward the fire and Bilba retreated to the dining room, setting the table as she’d been ordered. She avoided intruding on the conversation in the parlor, terrified of what they might be talking about. Though Bungo was diplomatic, she knew that he was also very suspicious of the dwarves—she didn’t dare think what sort of questions he might be asking in such privacy. Instead she busied herself with helping in the kitchen—and far too soon, they were sitting down to eat.

“Mister Oakenshield, Bilba tells me that you’ve converted the old barn into a forge,” Belladonna remarked, scooping some potatoes onto her plate.

“Yes, we have,” Thorin confirmed, loading up his own plate. Bilba noticed immediately that his table manners were far more refined than those of his fellows; his large fingers handled the utensils with surprising delicacy. “Our hope is to earn enough income to sustain ourselves through the winter, so as to not burden our host. The Thain has been more than generous to let us stay on his property for such a length of time. I would not dare to impose on his hospitality further.”

“And come spring you’ll be off again on this, er, quest?” Bungo asked, clearly unaccustomed to discussing such things.

“That is our plan, yes.” Thorin glanced briefly at Bilba.

“And exactly what is your quest?” Bungo didn’t appear to have any qualms about asking the question, but Belladonna widened her eyes in shock.

“Bungo! Dear, we have no place prying into the dwarves’ private affairs,” Belladonna rested a hand on Bungo’s arm, then offered an apologetic look to Thorin. “I’m so sorry, Mister Oakenshield.”

“It’s alright,” Thorin responded, staring down at his plate for a long moment. “I cannot answer your question, Master Baggins—our quest is a delicate matter and secrecy is of the utmost importance. However,” he glanced briefly at Bilba before looking at Bungo, “Do not think that to mean that the kindness of your family has gone unheeded. The hospitality of your kin has meant a great deal to my company, and even if I cannot give you answers, I offer you whatever service is in my power to provide.”

Bungo nodded and gave Thorin a polite smile, seemingly satisfied with the answer. They ate in silence for several minutes, then finally Bilba spoke.

“Did you live in Erebor before the dragon?” she asked, watching Thorin carefully for his reaction. He paused for a long moment, staring into empty space, then finally looked up at Bilba.

“I did some reading,” she admitted. “About how many of the dwarves in Ered Luin are refugees from Erebor. And some of the older members of the company talk about it…”

Thorin looked down at his plate again, his expression unreadable. “Yes, I lived in Erebor once.”

“May I ask what it was like? That is, only if you don’t mind…” Bilba felt that she might be treading on sensitive ground, but her curiosity got the better of her.

“What it was like?” Thorin repeated, his heavy brow furrowing.

“Yes. I mean, what it was like living under the mountain.” Bilba licked her lips, glancing sheepishly up at him. “Or would you prefer not to say?”

“No,” he answered immediately. “It isn’t that. No surfacer has ever asked such a question. Most never care to know.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Bilba said, poking at the vegetables on her plate. “How could they _not_ ask?”

Thorin gave her a small smile before looking away, and his gaze grew distant, as though he were searching back through his memory. “I do not know whether I have the capability to describe with mere words the majesty of such a place,” he began, his eyebrows lifting by a fraction. “Erebor was the wealthiest kingdom in Middle Earth, and among the most powerful. Its people were prosperous, industrious… and honorable. Our halls were vast caverns of beautifully carven stone where no surface was devoid of the finest craftsmanship, and gold gilded every crevice. Some of the chambers were so massive, you could have looked up and sworn you were staring into a starless night sky.” He paused, a fond look in his eyes as he focused on the past. “And—we created such exquisite things. In Erebor, we were not just smiths and tinkerers… we were the finest craftsmen in all the world, and patrons came from far and wide to pay handsomely for the goods that flowed from our deep forges. Then—“ Thorin stopped abruptly, his brow creasing. Bilba watched him struggle with something internally for a moment, then she spoke to prevent him from trying to continue.

“I’m sorry that you lost your home,” she said quietly. “I can tell that you loved it dearly.”

“Still,” Bungo interjected with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “From what I’ve heard it seems that the dwarves do quite well for themselves in the Blue Mountains.”

Thorin glanced up at Bungo, though Bilba couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking. “Aye, we do.”

“Well, then that’s something,” Bungo nodded approvingly. “Money isn’t everything, you know.”

Bilba and Thorin exchanged a look, but neither said anything. The conversation fell quiet—an easy silence that gave way to small talk as they finished up their meal. Then, after a generous desert, Thorin moved to excuse himself.

“Thank you for the wonderful meal, Mistress Baggins. I can see where your daughter learned to cook so skillfully.” Thorin bowed his head to his hostess.

“Of course, Mister Oakenshield! Come again any time!” Belladonna bade with a smile.

“Bilba, why don’t you see him out, and I’ll help your mother with the dishes.” Bungo had already begun gathering the plates from the table, so Bilba led Thorin to the door and retrieved his heavy cloak for him.

“Thank you for coming,” she said as he draped it over his shoulders. When he fumbled with the clasp, she reached up and fastened it for him, arranging it neatly on his shoulders.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Thorin countered, smiling down at her. “You have a gracious family.”

“They’re wonderful,” Bilba agreed, casting a warm look down the hall toward the dining room. As Thorin moved toward the door, she reluctantly opened it for him.

Just as he was stepping over the threshold, Thorin paused, focusing on something over Bilba’s head. “Is that—mistletoe?”

Bilba gasped and looked up, having forgotten about the sprig that her mother had hung in the entryway for herself and Bungo. They received few enough visitors that Bilba had never expected to get caught beneath it herself. She flushed and turned to apologize to Thorin, but when she looked up she found his large bulk advancing on her, pressing her back against the door frame. The words were stolen from the tip of her tongue and she was left to stare as he bent slowly down, her heart nearly beating its way out of her chest.

He drew close enough that she could smell her mother’s apple pie on his breath. The details of his face were shockingly stark, the subtle lines on his face laid out before her like a weathered map. Looking him in the eye when he was so near was not unlike looking into the eyes of some powerful, ancient creature, infinitely stronger and wiser than herself—she felt as though she might drown in his look.

Then his lips closed the distance her and eyes fluttered shut.

To her surprise, the kiss landed on her cheek rather than her lips. It was only a chaste touch, impossibly gentle, highlighted by the faint tickle of his beard against her sensitive skin, but it kindled a fire that filled her from head to toe. His lips lingered for just a moment longer than they had any right to, then he retreated, straightening and moving to depart.

“Wha—“ Bilba gasped, opening her eyes and trying to catch her bearings. He was barely a step away when she reached out and dragged him back by his cloak. “Oh, no you don’t,” she chastised sharply. And before he could say a word of protest, she leaned up on the tips of her toes and pressed her lips to his, kissing him hungrily.

Thorin froze at first, understandably shocked by her forwardness. Then slowly, he relaxed and began to reciprocate. One of his hands instinctively grasped her arm, steadying her against him, while the other reached up and touched her cheek, the calloused fingers caressing her skin. The sensation elicited a small noise of pleasure from Bilba, who arched her body further against him and ran her fingers through the fur pelt beneath his cloak. It was delicious to taste his breath so intimately, to run her tongue across his lip—catch his skin between her teeth. She felt every little thing keenly, from the touch of his fingertips against her cheek to the way his hard torso felt pressed against her body.

She lost track of exactly how long the kiss lasted, but when she finally stepped back she felt a heady sort of dizziness that made it hard for her to stand straight. Thorin was breathing heavily, sending thin wisps of steam into the frozen air.

“You should go inside where it’s warm,” he said quietly.

“Why?” Bilba replied with a sigh and a smile. “It’s positively summery out here.”

Thorin chuckled, leaning down to retrieve her hand. Placing another of his chaste kisses on her knuckle, he bowed his head to her. “Goodnight, Miss Baggins.”

Bilba reluctantly let him go and leaned back against the door frame. “Goodnight, Thorin Oakenshield.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter today instead of doing my math homework. Because when finals roll around, I'm a master procrastinator.
> 
> Er, so. Chapter things. I hope everyone enjoyed gratuitous shirtless Thorin. It had to happen at least once. And if anyone thinks that Bilba's slip was unlikely, the same thing just happened to me yesterday. (Told a classmate I wanted to kiss him instead of kick him. Except I really did mean I wanted to kick him. It was mortifying.)
> 
> The dinner might have moved a bit quickly, but I wanted to keep it all within this chapter. Hopefully the kiss wasn't too much of a jump forward.


	7. Pickalittle, Talk-a-Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lobelia Bracegirdle and company pay a visit to the forge bearing a wealth of unsavory gossip. Bilba educates the dwarves on hobbit culture, then learns about dwarf women.

The next day it snowed again, and upon her mother’s insistence, Bilba stayed at home. Though the snow from the last storm had melted from the ground, the bitter cold had maintained its grip on the Shire, making any time spent out of doors miserable at best. She occupied herself with chores around home—they were still in the process of getting ready for the sudden winter. A leak had sprung up in Bilba’s bedroom; it was only prevalent when snow was on the ground, but the occasional drip into the pot she had set beneath it was just enough to disrupt her sleep. She resolved that she’d have to ask her father to fix it at his earliest convenience, whenever that might be.

By the following morning the storm had cleared up, so Bilba made her way to the forge once soon she was dressed. When she arrived, she immediately picked up on something peculiar—the door was just slightly ajar, and she heard very clearly the sound of feminine voices mingling with those of the dwarves within. Curiosity getting the better of her, she pushed the door open just a little farther and stepped cautiously inside.

To Bilba’s dismay, the first thing she saw was Lobelia Gracegirdle pawing at Kili, a twittering laugh on her lips. She had brought her vicious little pack with her—Daisy Proudfoot and Ivy Brandybuck.

There was something about the three hobbit girls that was very much at odds with the dwarves and the forge around them. They were delicate, frilly things who spent far too much money on ridiculous fashions and, similarly, spent far too much time pining over the Shire boys. The three were looking at the dwarves as though they were a bunch of pets to be adored, and the mere sight of it made Bilba’s skin crawl.

“Lobelia!” called Bilba, striding forward and unfastening her cloak in a single smooth motion. “Daisy, Ivy. Fancy seeing you here.”

The three hobbits turned toward Bilba, turning up their noses immediately. From the corner of her eye Bilba saw the dwarves exchanging uncertain looks, as though they’d picked up on the sudden tension in the room and didn’t know quite what to make of it.

“Bilba, darling!” Lobelia greeted with false warmth, smiling through her teeth. “I’m so glad we ran into you! I wanted to return your—ah, _prize_.” Fishing through a pocket in her voluminous skirt, Lobelia pulled out the skinned conker that Bilba had retrieved on the evening of the dwarves’ arrival. She tossed it carelessly to Bilba, who fumbled but narrowly managed to catch it. “I’ve got no use for it, certainly. No _lady_ would ever indulge in such childish pastimes.” Daisy and Ivy snickered behind her.

“Then it’s a good thing I make no pretense at being a proper lady,” Bilba snipped in return, pocketing the chestnut. “It sounds _terribly_ dull.” Lobelia didn’t appear to lose any ground with that, so Bilba forged ahead. “What are you doing here?”

“My father needed some nails to board up the windows in the barn, and new shoes for one of the ponies,” Daisy volunteered.

“Ivy and I could hardly resist coming along,” Lobelia added with a wry look at Bilba. “Seeing as you’ve been spending so much time with these dwarves, we thought we ought to see what all the hubbub was about. I’m beginning to understand why you like them so much—they certainly know how to entertain a girl.” To punctuate her point, Lobelia reached up and chucked Kili beneath the chin—again, as though he were nothing more than a domesticated animal. Bilba noticed immediately that he was no longer smiling; in fact, he had furrowed his brow so heavily that he almost looked like his uncle, who was standing beside his anvil—shirt on, thankfully. She resisted the urge to glance at Thorin.

“They’re very excellent company,” Bilba affirmed. And though her tone was stiff, she meant it.

“I had thought that you might be going to the Yule party with Tolman Cotton, with as much time as the two of you were spending together,” Ivy said with false innocence. “But it seems as though you’ve all but forgotten about the poor fellow. I suppose now we can look forward to seeing you in the arms of a dwarf under the mistletoe.” The jab was painfully close to home and Bilba forced herself not to flinch—and _for goodness’ sake don’t look at Thorin_.

“Leave it to a Took to wander whichever way the wind blows her,” Lobelia tutted disapprovingly.

“And leave it to a Bracegirdle to propagate dirty gossip,” Bilba snapped, struggling not to give in to her temper. “Don’t you dare drag Tolman into this. He’s an old friend of mine. And nothing more.”

She could see the dwarves looking very uncomfortable now, as though they hadn’t the slightest clue what to do with this new and foreign side of hobbit culture. Ori appeared uncharacteristically fierce, ready to jump in on Bilba’s behalf while Dori shook his head and held him back; Balin stood away from the group with his arms folded, cautiously observing the situation, and Dwalin had taken to sharpening a knife. Bombur was nervously nibbling on a bit of cheese in the corner, while Bofur was looking up from his worktable with a scowl on his face, and Fili was standing opposite Kili, doing his best to ignore the flirtatious looks that Daisy was sending his way. A part of her was grateful that they weren’t trying to jump to her defense—she didn’t want them thinking they had to fight her battles for her.

“You might want to tell him that,” Ivy said through pursed lips.

“Last I heard he’s planning to propose on Yule,” Daisy added, nodding assuredly. The thought made Bilba’s insides squirm uncomfortably.

“Or—he _was_ ,” corrected Lobelia, sniffing at Bilba. “I can’t rightly say that he’ll still want you now.”

Bilba ground her teeth together, giving the three girls a simmering glare as she searched for something to say. She was still reeling from the worry that Tolman might have actually harbored romantic feelings for her, and she’d never cared to notice. It left her devoid of any semblance of wit. “I fail to see how any of that is your business,” she managed sullenly.

Lobelia smiled, apparently recognizing her victory. Pulling on her gloves, she turned and sauntered slowly toward Thorin, making Bilba’s gut clench uncomfortably. Of course she had to go for Thorin. _Why couldn’t she have gone for any of them but Thorin?_

“Hmm,” Lobelia purred, giving him a conspicuous look up and down. He bore the scrutiny stoically, his features as blank and as hard as stone. Then one of her gloved digits uncurled from her hand and ran audaciously down the front of his shirt—as though to test the firmness of his corded bulk. Bilba knew how pleasant that body felt beneath her hands, his muscles hard as rock and warm as a furnace. She stood stock still watching, but she willed herself not to show any upset on her face. The dwarves were watching just as closely—they had the good grace not to interfere with Bilba’s business, but if Lobelia dared to insult their leader then Bilba knew it would be another matter entirely.

Of course, the look that Lobelia was giving Thorin was _anything but_ insulting. Bilba couldn’t seem to decide which was worse.

Meanwhile, Daisy had fished out a few coins to pay for their goods. Their transaction settled, Lobelia finally turned away from Thorin and linked arms with Daisy and Ivy, starting toward the door. Bilba watched them go, feeling for all the world like she’d lost a major battle just now. While the news about Tolman had been upsetting, the sudden doubt and jealousy that had sprung up in her when Lobelia looked at Thorin was like a heavy blow to her chest.

“Oh, and one more thing, Bilba,” Lobelia called, pausing at the door. “For your own sake, the next time you smooch a dwarf you should consider having a little more discretion. I’m surprised his poor lips aren’t bruised.”

Bilba froze, utterly mortified—and now she was standing alone in a room with twelve very confused and suspicious dwarves (even though that was the norm for Bifur).

“Did—did they say that you kissed a dwarf?” Bofur asked, canting his head at Bilba like a puppy.

Bilba covered her face with her hands and shook her head, unable to think properly. Finally, after a moment of grappling with her own mortification, she conjured a wobbly voice. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Easy, lass,” Oin soothed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and helping her to a seat.

“But—who—?” Kili was looking at the others in suspicion.

“Well, it wasn’t me!” Fili countered defensively when his brother turned to him.

“Please don’t,” Bilba begged, looking up at Kili and putting an immediate stop to his inquisition.

“Here now,” Bofur cooed, moving to sit next to her and pull her against him comfortingly. Bilba leaned into the contact gladly, letting the smell of pipe weed and musk that clung to his person slowly bring back her presence of mind. She could hear Kili still fidgeting, and a few of the others shuffling around to find something to busy themselves, but for the most part she tried to tune out the noise.

“’S no business of theirs to be talking to you like that,” Bofur said sagely, rubbing her arm. “Don’t suppose it matters, anyhow, who proposes to who or what kind of folk y’ choose to kiss. ‘S like you said about hobbits trying to make something out of nothing. I’m starting to see what you meant by that.”

It wasn’t much—his words were simple by any measure. But somehow, it was just enough to make her feel a little better. She was beginning to recognize that Bofur had a talent for that, and it was something she appreciated more with every passing day.

“Thank you, Bofur,” she said with a smile, raising her head from his shoulder just enough to give him a peck on the cheek. “You’re a dear.”

“There’s my girl,” he said approvingly, returning her smile as she extracted herself from his embrace.

“I’m sorry that you all had to see that,” Bilba said, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. Though most of the dwarves had gone back to work in order to give her a bit of privacy, Fili, Kili, Dori, Ori, and Bifur had lingered nearby.

“We—we wanted to do something,” Ori said uncertainly, glancing at Dori. “But knowing so little about hobbit society…”

“We didn’t want to do anything that would be cause for further insult,” Fili clarified.

“No—you made the right choice,” Bilba said, standing from her seat to put herself on even ground with the dwarves. They were all taller than her, but she felt better throwing her shoulders back and holding her chin high. “I don’t want any of you ever thinking that I need to be—well, rescued.” Thorin was behind the gaggle of dwarves, seemingly preoccupied with adjusting the fire, but she caught him glancing up as she spoke and she exchanged the briefest of looks with him. “I can take care of myself. I may be small and perhaps not as fierce as the lot of you, but the Shire is my domain, not yours. Adept as you are at traversing the dangers of the wide world, so too have I grown adept at dealing with hobbits and the social hazards of our culture. If you’ve any faith in me at all, you’ll not interfere... Furthermore, you can be certain that I won’t let them try and drag you into any of their messy dramatics. I can’t imagine that they’d bother, foreign as you are—they’d just as soon ignore you entirely, I think. Nevertheless, gossip has a nasty way of making life unpleasant in the Shire if it’s allowed to run its course, and I’ll not let that happen to you.”

“Gossip,” Bofur snorted. “Y’ needn’t worry about that, lass. Being a dwarf you get to be very good about not giving a rat’s arse what people think of you.”

“Language,” Dori hissed reproachfully. “Anyway, he does have a point, Miss Baggins. We dwarves are very good at disregarding what others might think of us. You need not worry that the gossip of Hobbiton will do _us_ any harm. You just worry about watching out for yourself. We certainly don’t wish to cause any undue damage to your reputation.”

“Dori’s right,” Fili said with a frown. “If being a friend to us has caused you any trouble, then you’re welcome to stop visiting.” He exchanged an unhappy look with Kili, who reluctantly nodded his agreement. “We’ll get by just fine.”

“Maybe it would be better if we came to see you at Bag End?” Kili asked hopefully, his eyes lighting up a little.

Bilba couldn’t help but laugh at the idea. “I suppose it would be more socially acceptable, yes, since at home I have the benefit of my parents as trustworthy chaperones. But I’m not sure Bag End is quite ready to entertain the Company just yet. At the very least, I haven’t the faintest idea how my father would react.”

“Does your father disapprove?” Thorin asked, standing off to the side. It was the first he’d spoken since she’d arrived. “Cordial as he was the other night, I could not help feeling that he was wary of me—of _us_ ,” he corrected, amending his statement to include the company.

Bilba looked down, wetting her lips. “There’s something that you ought to understand about my father’s family, the Bagginses. They’re very… predictable. Reliable, respectable—take your pick. They’re well regarded for the fact that they rarely do anything out of the ordinary, and can always be counted on to act in the established norm. Therefore, you can understand how it might be very uncomfortable for someone like my father when a company of dwarves comes marching into his village and makes friends with none other than his daughter. I don’t want you to misunderstand—my father has a very good heart, and he recognizes my nature, because it is also my mother’s nature. He would never do anything that might hurt me. But he also means to protect me, and according to the Baggins attitude, that includes protection from the unknown, which means you. So that leaves him in an awkward position, because he wants to ensure that I’ll be safe but he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings by asking me not to befriend you. And… I’m glad that he hasn’t, because if he knew you like I do, he wouldn’t feel so worried on my behalf. I think that he’ll come to accept you with time, because, as I mentioned, he has a good heart, and _you_ are good people. He’s just going to need some time to come to terms with that in spite of his nature as a Baggins.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Thorin. He stood still for a moment, processing her words, then nodded. “Then I shall be patient. I find it strange to think, however, that you come from a family best known for its predictability.”

Bilba laughed, and though she didn’t know whether it was intended as a compliment it left a warm bloom in her chest. “I take a bit more after my mother, to be honest. There are all sorts of unsavory rumors surrounding the Tooks—some say that there’s something entirely un-hobbitlike about us. Always running off in search of adventure, and that’s a right unnatural thing.”

“It also explains a great deal,” Thorin replied with a smile. She heard a quiet scuffle among the dwarves standing next to her, and when she looked, she saw Kili looking at his uncle with a heavy furrowed brow and Fili glancing uncertainly between the two of them.

“Who’s Tolman Cotton?” Bofur asked from his chair. At some point he’d pulled out a knife and a block of wood and was whittling away.

“Tolman?” Bilba repeated, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. She could feel the beginnings of a blush beginning to creep across her cheeks. “Oh, he’s just—goodness, I suppose he’s one of my oldest friends, now that I think about it. He and I used to sneak out at night to catch fireflies in the summertime. And when I was little, he was the only boy who never thought I was odd for wanting to play with wooden swords instead of dolls.”

“And you’ve never…?” Bofur let the question trail off, pausing in his whittling to raise a suggestive eyebrow at her.

“No! Of course not,” Bilba replied, embarrassed. “That is, he’s grown into a good hobbit and there’s nothing—er, _repulsive_ about him. I’ve just never thought of him that way. I don’t know that I ever _could_ think of him that way.”

“Can I ask you something, Miss Baggins?” Kili chimed quietly, looking sheepish. His uncharacteristic demeanor immediately made her wary.

“I suppose?” she ventured cautiously.

“Do you still like playing with wooden swords?” Kili’s face split into a wide grin immediately, and she realized that he’d only been leading her on. Though she reached out to swat his arm for getting the better of her, a part of her was relieved that he wasn’t lingering on the subject of Tolman.

“I haven’t tried my hand at sword-fighting since I was at least half this height,” she answered, shaking her head with a grin. “And it certainly wasn’t anything that would measure up to the least of your standards.”

“ _But_... you’d be interested in learning, wouldn’t you?” Fili enticed her, sharing a wry look with his brother.

“Perish the thought,” Bilba reprimanded, though there was little force behind the words. “I’m sure that I’m much too clumsy for such things. You’d find me to be completely hopeless, I’m sure.”

“Hopeless or not, it could be valuable for you to have a basic knowledge of self-defense,” Thorin said, indicating that even though he had pretended to turn his attention elsewhere, he’d kept one ear on the conversation. “You said yourself that your father cared only for your safety—even he couldn’t be opposed to that.”

“Yes, but my father also cares for propriety,” Bilba retorted. “And sword fighting is hardly proper for a hobbit lady. Besides, why should I learn to use a sword? There are few enough in the Shire who can fight, and we still get along just fine.”

“A false sense of security can be a very dangerous thing,” Thorin said quietly, pausing in his work. His gaze remained downturned so that Bilba couldn’t quite get a read of his expression. “I would much prefer to know that you had such knowledge at your disposal and never needed it than presume you never will and be mistaken.”

“At least consider it,” Kili said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “It could be fun, if nothing else.”

 “Alright. I’ll consider it.” She assured him with a smile. “Now, then—Gloin promised to tell me about his wife…” Putting her hands on her hips, she sought out the ginger-haired dwarf and moved to plop herself down beside his work stool, eager to escape the conversation that had grown uncomfortably personal. She didn’t want to talk about herself or hobbits anymore. She wanted a distraction.

“I’m surprised ye remembered,” he said, eyeing her over the money he’d been counting.

“I have an impeccable memory, and I’m terribly stubborn,” Bilba countered, leaning on her elbows. “Go on, then, tell me about this great beauty of yours.”

“Mmph,” Gloin hesitated a moment, then reached under his tunic and withdrew an ornately carved locket on a thick chain. Opening it up, he set it on the table to show off two tiny sketches of dwarves. “My wife, Una, and my son, Gimli. Look at that good, thick beard of hers—the envy of Ered Luin, it is!”

“She has a beard?” Bilba gasped, looking at Gloin in shock. It prompted a laugh from the dwarf.

“Of course! All dwarves have beards, male and female—why, ye could even say that the attractiveness of a dwarf is heavily dependent on the length and thickness of their beard.”

Bilba blinked in the face of this new information, at a complete loss. “So—Kili?” she asked helplessly, glancing over her shoulder at the younger dwarf. By hobbit standards, he would be considered the most handsome of the group. It was strange to think that he was unattractive among dwarves.

“Ach, don’t ye worry about him,” Gloin answered dismissively. “He’s young yet—everyone knows the line of Durin to have excellent beards indeed. He’ll grow into a fine dwarf one day.”

Bilba leaned forward to look at the portraits again. Una’s face looked almost hobbit-like, with a rounded nose and large eyes; but she had a sterner brow and more defined jawline, and altogether the lines of her face were harder than the soft curves of a hobbit. Bilba felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, and what little confidence she might have had left from Lobelia’s visit abruptly drained away.

Did this mean she was ugly by dwarf standards? Worse—had she thrown herself at Thorin only to realize too late that he probably considered her to be unattractive?

“I imagine to dwarves, hobbits must be very funny looking creatures indeed,” Bilba said hesitantly, looking down.

“Mm?” Gloin paused and looked at her for a moment, and to his credit, proved himself to be more perceptive than she’d first assumed. With a sigh, he shifted to a more tactful approach. “Let me ask ye something, girlie—do ye think the lot of us are ugly?”

“What?” Bilba asked, brow furrowed. “No, of course not.”

“Even though we’re big and thick and hairier than even the most unfortunate hobbit?”

She couldn’t help but crack an amused smile. “Well, I’m not sure handsome is the word that I’d use, but certainly not ugly.”

“Then there ye have it,” he said firmly, reaching up to tap a large bulbous finger against the tip of her nose. “Hobbits aren’t any uglier to us than we are to hobbits. Different is different. Ye may not have a beard, but I daresay ye look better without one. Now put the thought out of yer head.”

Bilba smiled, admittedly feeling better. “I suppose, if anything, I’m surprised that so few of the Company are married. That is, if it isn’t impertinent to say. You strike me as quite a handsome lot—by dwarven standards.”

“Dwarves don’t place as much significance on marriage as other folk do,” Gloin admitted. “I’m sure most dwarves fancy the idea of finding a she-dwarf to settle down with and have a few brats, but rare as our women are…”

“Rare?”

“Oh, aye. Dwarf women are much rarer than human, elf, or hobbit women. To put it plainly, there aren’t enough to go around.”

“I had no idea.” Bilba had a hard time making sense of all the new information. She’d always known dwarves to be very different from hobbits, but she had never guessed the extent.

* * *

 

While Bilba was preoccupied with Gloin, Dwalin pulled Thorin away from the group to a quiet corner of the room. For the first several seconds, neither said a word: Dwalin gave Thorin a hard, disapproving look, which Thorin returned in kind, unyielding.

“The hobbit lass,” Dwalin finally said.

“What of her?” Thorin asked, folding his arms.

“I hear you’ve been kissing,” Dwalin said matter-of-factly. He knew that he was right, and Thorin wasn’t going to deny it.

“She kissed me,” Thorin answered dismissively. “A hobbit tradition. That’s all.”

“Any bruises?” Dwalin asked, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

Thorin scowled. “It’s none of your business.”

“Don’t get attached, aye? Remember that we’re leaving come spring.”

Thorin stared at Dwalin for a long moment, then without a word, stalked back to his anvil at the forge. He felt a sudden desire to pound iron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected chapter in the midst of so much studying. These are some of the most stressful finals I've ever dealt with, so it's nice to have a distraction between blocks of work. This chapter got away from me a little bit so it's kind of long, but the characters just wouldn't stop talking.
> 
> This wasn't a very strong chapter on Bilba's behalf, but don't worry, we'll be hearing from Lobelia again. And I apologize for not introducing Tolman before he came up in conversation-- you'll meet him soon enough.
> 
> Bonus! I think Gloin's locket is an actual thing. I found this image on the Lord of the Rings Wiki that is apparently a prop from the Desolation of Smaug. http://static3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130515175931/lotr/images/6/69/Gimli_as_Young.jpg
> 
> Meanwhile, scandal's afoot. ;) The company's on to Thorin now.


	8. The Yule Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves attend the Hobbiton Yule party. While barriers between peoples are broken down, Bilba is faced with an onslaught of embarrassing relatives and suitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin silently judges the life choices of Bilba's suitors, and mistletoe continues to be problematic. (Can't stop won't stop.)

The remaining weeks of Foreyule crept up on the Shire with unexpected haste; busy as the forge was with their newfound business, Bilba and her dwarven friends barely noticed the approach of the holiday until the beginning of the six day celebration was upon them. The holiday itself consisted of two days, the end of the year and the beginning of the year, and revelry began two days prior and lasted until two days after. The Yule party, which was one of the most anticipated events in the Shire, fell on the first Yule, giving Bilba the two days of celebration before the party to explain to the dwarves some holiday customs. Thorin was adamant that the dwarves would not attend the Yule party despite Bilba’s enthusiastic insistence, and it was only after the Company received an invitation directly from the Thain that he finally yielded.

Occupied as the usual party space was, the Old Took elected to hold the celebration in the comfort of his own home. He was possessed of one of the largest, most handsome smials in the Shire, and though it was a little tight to fit all the residents of Hobbiton and their families inside, the dwarves were kind enough to arrive early and help him move much of the larger furniture out of the way.

The Company began to grow nervous as guests started filtering through the door, exchanging fond greetings with the Old Took and his family. As Thorin had predicted, most of the hobbits pointedly ostracized the dwarves. Fortunately, Bilba and her parents were among the first to arrive, thanks to Bungo’s legendary knack for punctuality.

Extremely conscious of the public circumstances, Thorin was careful to school his gaze—even so, he could not help but admire the way Bilba looked all dressed up for the occasion. She had worn a snow-white dress that was embroidered with a white floral pattern, visible against the fine fabric only for the minute distinction of texture. She had pulled her golden curls up in pins, showing off the high collar of her dress and the way its plunging neckline framed her throat exquisitely. He caught himself thinking what a pity it was that the forge should be so filthy—Miss Baggins looked radiant in white.

Though she made certain to greet her family and close friends before making her way to the dwarves, as was no doubt expected, soon enough she had snaked her way through the ever-thickening crowd to where the dwarves were gathered around the hearth near their host.

“Ah, there she is!” exclaimed Gerontius Took as Bilba leaned down to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Loveliest girl in all the Shire, I should say,” complimented one of his Proudfoot friends.

“Here now, don’t insult my dear girl,” the Old Took tutted, scowling at the Proudfoot.

“Grandpapa, what--?” Bilba began to protest, reddening with embarrassment.

“Prettiest girl in all the world is more like it,” Gerontius corrected, pulling Bilba into another lazy hug. She laughed and planted another kiss on top of his head, then shuffled into the midst of the dwarves.

“I’m so glad that you agreed to come,” she greeted warmly. She moved to hug several of the dwarves, who accepted without protest—but when she came to Thorin, she hesitated, and instead settled for pressing her small palm into his.

“I would not wish to insult the hospitality of our gracious host,” Thorin replied neutrally. In truth, he felt a quickening in his pulse when her lithe fingers slipped so easily into his palm, and he wanted nothing more than to draw her close against him and exchange another of the precious kisses that they had stolen in secret over the past few weeks. But both of them were reluctant to make any public show of affection, each for their own perfectly valid reasons; so it had become almost like a game, the two of them seeking out those scant opportunities in moments alone to explore their strange new attraction.

“Of course,” Bilba answered with a wry smile, and the sparkle in her eye as she looked up at him told him without a doubt that her thoughts mirrored his own. She opened her mouth as though to start up conversation, but was interrupted by a sudden chorus of shrieks when a gaggle of hobbit children charged through the crowd toward Bilba. In an impressively dexterous display, she bent low and scooped one up in a fluid motion as she came near, settling the girl against her hip.

“Well, hello Miss Matilda,” she greeted with a bright smile as the girl leaned up to kiss her cheek. (It was the third kiss Thorin had seen Bilba exchange in the space of five minutes—a fact which, against his better judgment, left him wondering if the affections of hobbits were more loosely given than those of dwarves. In the wake of the thought came an ugly swell of jealousy, which he resolutely tamped down.)

“Hello, Miss Bilba,” the child greeted, shyly eyeing the dwarves. After a moment of looking, the girl recovered some of the boldness that had sent her charging in this direction and reached a tiny hand toward Balin. “Your nose is big.”

Balin’s bushy eyebrows shot up, and he cast a questioning glance toward Bilba, waiting for her encouraging nod before answering. “That just means I’m very good at smelling trouble, lass,” he assured the girl with a wink and a tap on the side of his nose. He also cast a sly sideward glance at Dwalin, who made a noise of protest and elbowed his brother in good humor.

“What does trouble smell like?” the girl asked, a thoughtful expression on her face.

Balin chuckled, pausing a moment to consider the question. “Ooh, I suppose it can smell like any number of things. Trolls, goblins, milk that’s gone sour… Where there’s smoke there’s fire, as they say.”

The girl didn’t appear to catch onto the wisdom of the idiom, distracted as she was by the list preceding it. “Trolls?” she repeated, her eyes wide.

“Oh, aye. Especially pungent, they are,” Balin confirmed, nodding sagely. “Rescue a bit of treasure from a troll horde, you can bet it’ll smell of troll for the rest of your life.”

“Have you ever seen a troll?” the girl continued to question, and Bilba set her down so that she and Balin could continue their conversation. She turned toward Thorin as though she meant to speak again, and for the second time, she was interrupted by relatives nosing their way into the gathering near the hearth.

“Bilba! Oh, Bilba, my dear girl! So wonderful to see you!”

“Hello, Aunt Donnamira,” Bilba greeted with a forced smile, and Thorin had to resist the urge not to glare at the intrusive aunt as she glanced curiously in his direction. He supposed it was just as well that she didn’t bother to extend him any greeting before jumping into conversation with Bilba.

“My love! Your hair—I think it’s gotten straighter!” Donnamira patted Bilba’s golden curls wistfully, plucking at its delicate perch in its pins.

“No, Aunt, it’s just longer,” Bilba replied, tossing Thorin a long-suffering look.

“Well, there’s a cure for that, you know,” Donnamira forged on as though Bilba had said nothing at all. “Burned toast, that’s what you need. Eat a few slices of burned toast each morning, and you’ll have the loveliest head of curls in all the Shire, that’s to be certain.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bilba said, and it wasn’t difficult to tell that she had no intention of following the ridiculous instructions.

“Now, then—have you seen Marmadas Brandybuck yet this evening? I think he was going to tag along with Mirabella and Gorbadoc—had his eye set on you for quite a while. Smart match, that’d be.” Donnamira gave Bilba a suggestive smile.

Bilba grimaced, slinking backward to stand just a tiny step closer to Thorin. “Please don’t say that.”

“Well, it’s true! Why, just the other day—“ Much to Thorin’s relief, Donnamira was tactfully interrupted by Bilba’s mother, Belladonna, who dragged her away to sample some sweets she’d brought along.

Bilba breathed an audible sigh and turned toward the dwarves, a tortured expression on her face. “Confounded relatives,” she muttered, low enough to not offend anyone who might fit in that category.

“Marmadas Brandybuck?” Bofur asked, raising his eyebrows innocently. “Now _there’s_ a name for you.”

“There’s a _hobbit_ for you,”Bilba corrected, giving him a warning look not to press it further. “His ego could fill a mountain.”

“Sounds charming,” Thorin teased, much to the surprise of his fellows. In spite of his better judgment, he had the urge to meet this Marmadas.

Then Thorin was on the receiving end of one of Bilba’s testy glances. She was about to snap some sort of reply, but before she could get out the first word someone came to ask for her help with one of the evening’s activities. She gave Thorin an admonishing look as she was dragged away, to which he only offered a small smile.

* * *

 

“Right, then! Your attention please!” Bilba called, climbing up onto a table to reign in the crowd. As they quieted down, she grinned and continued. “It’s time to bob for apples!” The crowd, which had grown quite thick by now, mustered a hearty cry of enthusiasm. “Now—most of you know the rules, but for any who don’t—“ she glanced meaningfully toward the dwarves in the corner, who looked confused more than anything else as two sloshing tubs of water were carried into the room—“It’s simple enough. Mouths only—hands tied behind your back—and it only counts if you get the whole apple completely out of the water.”

As she spoke, eager players began jostling for the chance to bob. The dwarves gathered around the tub cautiously, trying to gain some understanding of the game. Though none of the hobbits welcomed them there with open arms, most were well aware by now that the dwarves were present as guests of the Thain, and were therefore to be treated with hospitality.

The moment the first pair of hobbits began ducking into their respective tubs, the dwarves seemed to be taken up by a sudden wave of zeal; as soon as the first round was finished the game evolved into a playfully team-oriented effort of hobbits versus dwarves. The latter took to apple-bobbing with impressive skill. Ori was the first to give it a try, much to Bilba’s surprise—and after he won his first match, Bombur clambered for the chance to try second. The rotund gourmand turned out to be a nigh unbeatable champion at the game, and won several rounds against the hobbits before giving the other dwarves some turns. Fili and Kili went next, both putting forward a valiant effort, but neither was able to live up to Bombur’s record, which would undoubtedly go down in Hobbiton history.

Bilba made no attempt to participate herself, but watched fondly from where she stood in the split in the crowd. Though she was certain no one else had noticed it, a sudden camaraderie overtook all of the party-goers when the dwarves began to participate in the game, and the rift between the two peoples was mended just a little. The hobbits forgot about the outlandish nature of the dwarves in light of the fun, and the dwarves were more than eager to participate in something so refreshingly simple. For a few precious minutes, the societal boundaries between Thorin’s Company and the people of Hobbiton came crashing down, and the party was simplified to a gathering of friends and neighbors to make merry.

There was nothing Bilba had wanted more.

It was in the midst of the apple-bobbing that the much dreaded Marmadas Brandybuck finally made his appearance. Materializing from seemingly nowhere with two small glasses of wine balanced in one hand, he hooked Bilba by the arm and dragged her toward the hall. “Miss Baggins, I’d be much obliged if you’d have a drink with me.”

“Oh, but I—I should—“ she began to protest as they settled under the arch leading into the hall and he handed her one of the glasses of wine.

“Quit fussing,” he urged with a smooth smile. From the center of the crowd Bilba heard Dwalin roar some kind of battle cry as he emerged victorious with an apple, to which Marmadas only spared a glance. “They’re fine, see?”

In spite of her awkward circumstances, Bilba couldn’t help smiling. These village parties were always an ordeal, but somehow the presence of the dwarves made it all the sweeter to bear.

Marmadas took her smile as a sign of encouragement. “You look lovely this evening,” he complimented, his gaze straying down her frame. He almost pulled it off, but his eyes dragged just a little too long over the curves in her figure and sank whatever cheer Dwalin’s victory had mustered in her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a larger gulp of wine than was entirely necessary. “And you look—“

Bilba paused to consider him. By hobbit standards, he was attractive. And well built, too—though what musculature he had now paled pathetically by comparison to the dwarves. He was tall (again, not quite as tall as most of the dwarves) and on the crest of his head was a tumble of rich sable curls. His eyes were also that color, though Bilba had seen little beauty in brown eyes until she met Kili, whose radiant spirit and vitality made them sparkle. All in all, there was very little that was unpleasant about him. But by the same measure, there was certainly nothing remarkable.

“Quite nice,” she finished lamely, somehow unable to muster up any compliment that didn’t sound feeble when she mentally compared him to the dwarves.

Her impoliteness didn’t seem to put him off. “It seems I hardly see you anymore,” he remarked conversationally, glancing meaningfully at the dwarves. “It’s a pity to see all your energy taken up playing hostess. I don’t think anyone would blame you if you let them be by now. They’ve had plenty of time to settle.”

“I spend my time with them because I wish to,” Bilba snipped in reply, giving him a hard look.

Marmadas raised an eyebrow and smirked, as though he were amused by her sudden sharpness. “It sounds to me like you just need to be reminded of what was already here in the Shire, right within your grasp.”

Bilba’s temper flared hotter. “Has it ever occurred to you that I—“

“Here now, what’s this?” came a shout from the crowd, interrupting Bilba’s retort. Suddenly the eyes of half of Hobbiton were on the two of them, along with the dwarves still standing around their basin of water. “It looks like Bilba’s caught herself a suitor under the mistletoe!”

Stiffening in horror, Bilba glanced up at the crest of the arch, where a sprig of mistletoe had indeed been hung with a conspicuous red ribbon. No wonder Marmadas had been so eager to drag her away from the game!

Freshly riled up, she turned to give him a piece of her mind—only to find his arm winding around her waist, and then he was ducking down and smashing his lips against hers. The kiss was entirely too forceful to be enjoyable, unpleasant company notwithstanding—it was more for show than for affection, as though Marmadas had contrived from the start to claim her with all of Hobbiton watching.

Well, bollocks to that.

Somehow, the near-full glass of wine she held in her hand found itself tipped upright over Marmadas’ head, sending a cold splash of red liquid down his neck and back. He jumped away from her with a shocked gasp, and the meddling crowd erupted into a bout of raucous laughter.

When he began sputtering in search of something to say, she simply offered him an innocent shrug. “Thanks for the drink!”

As she walked away the better part of the crowd went back to their business and Bilba took a moment to assess the damage. Her father was slumped in his chair, covering his eyes with one hand—her mother was rubbing Bungo’s back and obviously trying very hard to stifle laughter—and across the room, though most of the dwarves looked as though they approved of her course of action, Thorin’s face wore a livid glower.

Bilba’s stomach dropped to her feet when she met his eye, feeling as though the searing jealousy in his gaze would burn a hole right through her head. All the same, he looked away quickly, moving toward the fireplace and pulling out his pipe. Was he angry at her? Surely he had seen that she’d been tricked?

Gradually the company migrated back toward the hearth, as though some force of gravity bound them to the presence of their leader. Bilba joined them meekly, hoping she wasn’t unwelcome. At the very least, the others seemed to receive her warmly—Nori and Kili even went so far as to congratulate her on her successful defense against Marmadas.

At length, a makeshift band assembled from hobbits who had brought their instruments to the party. More confident in their ability to mingle, a few of the dwarves made their way to the musicians and offered up their support. Dwalin even managed to produce a fiddle, though Bilba hadn’t seen it on him before. She smiled as she watched him start up a duel with one of the local fiddle-players, pitting traditional dwarven songs—which the Company happily sang along to—against old hobbit folk melodies. Eventually, the contest degraded, and more questionable material began to make an appearance—and though neither party faltered even the slightest as they offered up their songs and lyrics, she would have bet money that more than a little bit of it was being made up on the spot.

“Evenin’, Bilba,” greeted a familiar voice, and Bilba turned to see none other than the friendly face of Tolman Cotton.

“Tolman! There you are!” She lit up immediately, throwing her arms around his neck in an enthusiastic hug without a thought.

“Er, yes—sorry I’m so late, but my Gram lost her cat and was on the verge of hysterics.” He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Again?” Bilba asked sourly. “Where’d the wretched thing get off to this time?”

“The oven,” Tolman answered with a cringe. “Don’t ask me how—it’s just lucky there wasn’t a fire lit or the abominable thing would have been done for.”

She did her best to offer a sympathetic expression, but it wavered quickly into a girlishly amused smile. “Yes, well, I’m glad that you could join us now you’ve rescued your Gram’s cat from the oven.”

Tolman sighed irritably at her, but he was unable to hold the expression, and after a moment he gave way to a smile. “I might not have come at all at this point, but I wanted to see you.”

Bilba’s smile faltered just a little as she recalled Daisy Proudfoot’s warning against his proposal. “Oh?”

She spared a glance toward the dwarves—though most of them still had their attention fixed on Dwalin’s musical duel, a few were keeping a close eye on her and Tolman. Bofur kept casting sly sideward glances toward the two as he puffed on his pipe, and Fili and Kili were in the corner whispering and nudging each other. Though she almost didn’t dare to look at him, Thorin made no attempt at discretion as he watched them from where he leaned against the mantle.

“I—I just wanted to give you this.” Tolman produced a small box from his back pocket, slightly smashed, but wrapped carefully with a blue ribbon. She took it from him with a questioning glance, then carefully loosened the ribbon and pulled off the top.

With a gasp, Bilba pressed her fingers against the fond smile that spread across her lips. Inside was a rock—just large enough to sit comfortably in her palm, polished smooth by the river, its black surface broken only by a single vein of white running the length of its center. The rock itself was nothing remarkable, but it brought back a swell of childhood memories. In their youth, they had spent countless hours acting out an epic tale of their own creation: the stone had been a king’s jewel, stolen by a covetous dragon, and with the help of a valiant princess Tolman the Brave had recovered his birthright.

An unremarkable stone, but the memories borne with it were more precious than gold.

“Oh, Tolman,” she breathed, pulling the rock out of the box. Though she didn’t glance up, she could feel the confusion—derision, even—in the dwarves around her. Bofur even started to say something, but Bilba silenced him with a discreet kick to the shin.

“Ozirum menu seleku,” Bifur provided with a snort at the rock. Bilba was sure it was some kind of insult, but she let it slip since it was as good as gibberish to hobbit ears.

“Thank you,” she said, giving her friend a fond smile. “This is one of the sweetest gifts anyone’s ever given me.” The remark earned a chorus of grumbles from the dwarves, but she ignored it.

“You’re welcome, Bilba,” Tolman answered with a pleased smile of his own. “Now, then—I think it’s high time I was introduced to these friends I’ve been hearing so much about.”

Bilba accordingly introduced Tolman to each of the dwarves, one by one. Some received him better than others—Bofur, Ori, Nori, and Balin were perfectly cordial. Thorin, to her dismay, refused to so much as accept the handshake that Tolman offered him. Answering with a stormy glower that could shear stone, Bilba was quick to usher her friend away before tension began to escalate—even if the idea of Tolman getting tense with anyone was a laughable thought.

For his part, Tolman seemed genuinely eager to welcome the dwarves, and Bilba found herself wondering why she hadn’t thought to introduce him before. He even went so far as to acquaint Kili to his sister, who invited him to dance with a bit of subtle prodding from Bilba. This brought about another even more welcome shift in the crowd, and by the time several of the dwarves had taken hobbit dance partners, Bilba was beginning to feel that the prejudice between the locals and the outsiders had all but faded away.

All the same, as Bilba and Tolman took up a post near the hearth, not far from where Thorin was silently smoking his pipe, she heard a snippet of discouraging conversation from some of the elders.

“These dwarves,” one said to the other with a disapproving shake of his head. “Handle our girls like they’re handling battle axes! They’ve got no sense of delicacy whatsoever!” Though she knew she should disregard the gossip of crotchety old men, she felt her smile wavering with the remark.

Bilba almost didn’t notice Thorin stir from his spot until he was moving to the opposite side of the hearth, near the Old Took’s chair, and retrieving her grandfather’s harp from where it lay propped against the wall. This earned some attention from those standing nearby, if only for the fact that Thorin was the only dwarf who had yet to show his colors. The crowd began to hush as he sat down, propping the harp against his chest, and within the first few notes he plucked a captivated silence had fallen over the entire smial.

The melody he played was a simple one. Like Thorin himself, it wasn’t contrived, and it was devoid of any unnecessary flourish. But there was a weighty significance to every note that was present—a masterful eloquence that suggested far greater skill with the instrument than he let on.

The song was undoubtedly some ancient dwarf tune, something that had echoed through hallowed halls of gilded stone over the course of centuries, too sacred for the unworthy ears of the ignorant hobbits of the Shire. He played it with staggering emotion, though his face remained stoically composed through the course of his performance; every lingering pause plucked the heart strings as poignantly as the measured chords between.

Though Bilba lost track of the time, when he finally drew his melody to a close she could have sworn she saw tears glittering in a few eyes—not the least of which were Balin’s. As Thorin respectfully replaced the harp and turned back, Balin rested a large hand on his arm and gave it a meaningful squeeze; and when Thorin looked down at Balin, Bilba got the distinct impression of some sort of significant communion between them. The other dwarves looked equally reverent, as though Thorin’s performance carried more significance than the hobbits were privy to.

There was no applause. The song had not been a merry one of the sort that hobbits knew, and the haunting, wistful melody had left them all with the weighty feeling that cheering might somehow be profane. So instead they began to murmur amongst themselves, and when Thorin moved through them toward the front door, the crowd parted like water. Bilba trailed after him on instinct; though she had no idea whether her presence would be welcome, she somehow felt that she couldn’t leave him alone after what she’d just witnessed. She retrieved her winter cloak from its peg as she passed, certain that it would be cold.

Outside, the winter air was brisk enough that her breath produced gusts of steam. Thorin was leaning on the doorstep, his face shadowed and thoughtful as he pondered the night sky. Bilba was certain to shut the door behind her to give them some privacy before she moved to stand beside him, doing her best to ignore the chill that prickled at her skin.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” she said quietly, looking out to the sky with him. “I’m sure of it. I’ll never forget that melody.”

Thorin was silent, but inclined his head slightly in what she assumed was meant to be thanks.

“Who taught you?” she continued. In truth, she had no idea if conversation was welcome, but as usual, her curiosity got the better of her.

“My mother,” he answered, his voice hushed but steady. In the heavy silence of the night air, she was struck again by its rich timbre, and the way that every sound he made seemed to rumble through his thick chest at the same time it passed his lips. “It was her belief that in order for a warrior to truly appreciate his strength, he had to first learn the value of delicacy. Sometimes the whisper of a harp’s strings can hold more power than the deadliest sword.”

“She sounds like she was a very wise woman,” Bilba said, absently fishing for his hand and baring his palm before her gaze. She cradled the weight of it between her small fingers, tracing over the lines and callouses with a feather-light touch that made him twitch.

“She was,” he sighed, letting her explore his hand without protest. “I used to play at the feasts in Erebor, for grand halls filled with lords and ladies and celebrated heroes. My father boasted that my music could easily put any elf to shame.”

Bilba glanced up at that, just enough to catch the corner of his lips upturned in a slight smile, which she answered with one of her own. “I don’t doubt it,” she assured him, turning her attention back to his hand. Her thumb traced over the thick, rough tip of his index finger, and she was grateful to the cold that masked the blush in her cheeks as she lusted for a more intimate touch from those hands.

“It’s incredible that your mother managed to instill so much—“ she shook her head, struggling to find the right word, “Finesse in hands such as these. I hope you won’t mind my saying so, but I never would have thought you capable of producing such gentle music as that.”

“Few do,” he admitted. “Gentleness is a trait of the dwarves which is often overlooked by others. Understandably, I suppose. Ours is a proud race of warriors, whose traditions and even language are hallowed secrets. Nevertheless it _is_ there—gentleness. Like a seam of gold in the heart of stone. You need only dig deep enough to find it.”

“Heart of gold,” Bilba said with a soft smile, looking up at him.

“There was something I had thought to do earlier,” he ventured cautiously, looking down at her and admiring the way the cool light played over her skin. “But I hadn’t the chance.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow at him innocently.

Thorin’s body shifted, swinging away from the doorstep and trapping her against it in a fluid motion. Even with the cold that flushed her skin with a rosy tinge, he could see a bit of extra heat swell in her face, and when he reached up to trace that same rough hand over her smooth cheek he could feel her skin thrumming with exhilaration. Though she pressed back against the cozy front wall of the smial, she watched Thorin draw near with eager anticipation. There was a strange hunger in his eyes that reminded her of that hot jealousy she’d seen burning in his gaze after he’d watched Marmadas kiss her. Interestingly, it had only made her want him more—to draw out that darkly feral side of him, see just what he might be capable of when less inhibited by his inherent sense of propriety and dignity.

Bilba’s hands ran up along the fur of his coat and threaded through his thick, dark mane, dragging him down to her so she could kiss him hungrily. Though they had shared more than a few stolen kisses when given the opportunity, there was something deliciously different about this one—his grip on her waist was just a little tighter, his warm fingers pressed into the thin layer of fabric on her back, and his lips moved against hers with a touch more aggression than usual. Like Marmadas, it felt as though Thorin was laying some silent claim to her—but unlike the hobbit suitor, his kiss was for her and her alone, knowing that she was the only one he needed to convince.

As it had been when he played the harp, there was a deliberate mastery to his movement, a careful balance between force and gentleness, urgency and a slow burn, which left something deep inside of Bilba coiled up like a tight spring. Though Marmadas had gall and Tolman was sweet, she couldn’t imagine either of her suitors conjuring up a hunger in Bilba the way that Thorin did now. She gasped against his lips when they finally parted, and even in want for air he pressed his lips to hers again and again, drinking her in as though to stave off some deep thirst in the pit of his belly.

“Thorin,” Bilba managed a weak moan, half drunk on the heady sensation of his kisses.

“Shh, quiet,” he ordered. His words were barely audible, but carried with them a tone of command that crumbled her already faltering will. She sank back into him, utterly resolved that no hobbit in the Shire could possible hold a candle against Thorin Oakenshield.

* * *

 

The moment of privacy didn’t last.

As soon as Thorin heard the latch on the door sliding open he jumped back from Bilba, trying to steady his breath and recover his dignity. Watching her with her suitors this evening had left him itching for her in a very questionable way, and he had very nearly forgotten himself in the cozy shadow beside the door. As it was, awareness came crashing back very suddenly when none other than Marmadas Brandybuck slipped through the door of the smial, his eyebrows shooting up when he saw Bilba and her companion.

“Well, now,” the hobbit said, glancing back and forth between them with an amused smile. “What have we here?”

“Marmadas—“ Bilba began, moving as though to stand between them. Thorin stayed her with an uplifted hand, throwing his shoulders back as he stepped forward.

“That is no concern of yours,” he said quietly. The tone of command was back again—the tone which had held the unquestioning loyalty of his people for almost a century and a half, even through the most difficult of hardship. “Our business is our own.”

Marmadas’ confidence seemed to falter a little in Thorin’s sheer force of presence, but to his credit, he held his ground. “I fail to see how you should have any business at all, _dwarf_.”

“Khahum menu rkhas shirumundu,” Thorin muttered, the Khuzdul flowing easily over his tongue. “Have care to whom you speak.”

“To whom I speak?” Marmadas repeated with a derisive laugh. “The nerve! As far as I’m concerned I speak to _nobody_. Trash. Just a bit of flotsam that blew in with the winter wind.”

The insult made Thorin burn with indignation, and he was well aware that had his company been anywhere within earshot, the boy might have found himself sporting a few broken bones by now. As it was, he was left to defend himself. Violence sounded remarkably appealing at the moment but Thorin knew Bilba would not approve. As for answering the challenge verbally, Thorin could not make any claim to status without compromising the precious anonymity he had found here in the Shire. So he was left biting his tongue and clenching his fists.

“Go home,” Thorin ordered. “Leave before you start something you cannot finish.”

Though vague, his words carried all the gravity of a threat, and Marmadas seemed to think twice. Sparing the briefest of glances for Thorin’s bulky figure, which was impressive by even the most impossible standards, he seemed to falter for just a moment. “What are you going to do, dwarf—beat me? Right here in front of Miss Baggins, on her grandfather’s doorstep?”

“No,” Thorin answered levelly, not yielding so much as an inch. “But I _will_ defend myself. Give me just provocation and I will show you what regret feels like.”

Bilba did interject now, well aware that neither of them showed the slightest interest in backing down. “Come now, that’s enough,” she said quietly, stepping forward and resting a hand on Thorin’s thick forearm. “Marmadas, go home. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”

Though her voice was barely audible, it was surprisingly firm, and the look in her eyes as she addressed him showed that she wasn’t in the mood for argument. Marmadas considered her briefly, as though surprised by her loyalty to Thorin, then muttered something under his breath and turned to walk down the path. Bilba and Thorin watched him go together, waiting until he was well out of earshot before speaking.

“I suppose we can expect to hear from him again,” Thorin stated, glancing down at her.

“Most likely,” Bilba sighed, her hand sliding down his forearm to intertwine with his fingers. “He’s proud. And stubborn.” With a wry smile, she looked up at him. “Not terribly unlike you, actually.”

“He has no sense of honor,” Thorin answered gruffly, unamused at being compared to such an unsavory character.

“I know,” Bilba comforted, moving to face him. “Don’t worry. I like you much, _much_ better.” Her free hand fluttered up to his face, her cold thumb tracing a light arc over his weathered cheek. “It’s funny, though. I wouldn’t have thought you to be the jealous type.”

“And why is that?” he asked, his expression remaining impassive as he met her eye.

“Well,” she started with a shrug, glancing off to the side. “Why should you be? When you’re so… so…” Biting her lip, she struggled to find the words and settled instead for running her hand downward over his bulky chest. “Magnificent,” she breathed, her gaze unfocused on his torso.

“Magnificent?” Thorin repeated, finally managing to crack a small smile. “Most would settle for _old_.”

Bilba scoffed. “Hardly!” Then she looked up at him, her gaze catching on the streaks of silver that threaded through his hair at his temples, and she paused. “How… old _are_ you, exactly?” she asked, as though embarrassed to so much as voice the question.

Thorin’s eyebrows inched up by a fraction. “One-hundred and sixty-five,” he provided without hesitation, watching carefully for her response.

“One-hundred and--?” she gasped, her eyes widening in shock. “You’re—you’re older than my grandfather!” She glanced toward the door of the smial, utterly flabbergasted.

Thorin laughed, a low chuckle that rumbled in his chest. “Too old for you,” he said wistfully. “You would be—hm, twenty?” He knew his guess was probably a bit low, but he had a better understanding of human aging than hobbit.

“Thirty-two,” Bilba corrected with a defensive glare. “And anyway, I don’t see how it should matter. By the looks of you I’d say you’ve got more than a few good years left.”

Thorin looked at her with a sparkle of warm amusement in his eyes. “A hundred, if I live to a ripe old age.”

“Ay me,” Bilba sighed, looking at him in wonder again. “If I managed to live another hundred years I’d be the oldest hobbit there ever was. And if I should look half so good at you at one-hundred and sixty-five, it’ll be called nothing short of _witchcraft_.”

“The flame that burns half as long burns twice as bright,” he comforted, borrowing her hand from his chest to kiss the palm. “Do not regret your fewer years, for you will only be subjected to half so much sorrow as I have seen in mine.”

Bilba’s gaze softened at that, and she studied his face for a long moment as though to take in all the lines and scars that years of sorrow had left behind. “Yet they’ve made you the way you are,” she observed. “And for that I’ve no choice but to be thankful.”

Thorin sighed, enclosing his hand a little tighter around her small, frozen fingers. “Come,” he beckoned. “Your parents will be wondering where you are by now.”

Bilba glanced wistfully at the door, clearly not wanting to go back inside. Thorin leaned down to give her one more kiss—a soft, chaste touch of the lips—then pulled her by her captive hand toward the smial. By the time they crept back inside, they were no longer holding hands.

The party had already begun to wind down, so the company helped Gerontius and his family clean up—if by methods that the Old Took found somewhat questionable—and rearrange the furniture. Bilba and her family departed shortly after. As the exhausted girl crept into her bed that night and drifted quickly toward the delirium of sleep, her last thought was to wonder where Gandalf might have gotten off to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ozirum menu seleku." -- You couldn't forge a spoon.  
> "Khahum menu rkhas shirumundu." -- Your clan are beardless orcs.
> 
> Ahaha. Khuzdul insults. :)
> 
> First of all, much love to the kind folks who took the time to wish me luck on my finals. Small a gesture though it might have been, it really helped keep me going through the past couple of days. You can consider the extra length of this chapter my thanks. It was a fun chapter to write-- throwing hobbits and dwarves into a massive party is bound to lead to good times all around. Not to mention trying to embarrass Bilba as much as possible. (The dwarves got especially sassy in my head when I decided that Tolman was going to give Bilba a rock for Yule.)
> 
> Also haaaarp. Does anyone else think that Thorin playing his harp would pretty much be the sexiest thing ever? Yeah, Hobbiton thinks so too.
> 
> PS-- I should note that I've made Thorin about thirty years younger than he is in the book. This is because the Fell Winter took place thirty years prior, so I'm just bumping the quest backwards in time a bit.


	9. Voice of Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin accepts a gift from Gerontius Took and Gandalf delivers a warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, b****. I bet you thought you saw the last of me.
> 
> In all seriousness, I’m sorry that this chapter came so late. I thought I was going to have plenty of time to write, but I ended up getting swept up in the holidays and my birthday. I’ll be traveling for a week after Christmas so you won’t hear from me at all during that time, but I’ll see if I can’t get out another chapter or two before I go.

“I cannot possibly accept this, Master Took,” Thorin said, holding out his hands as though they might magically ward away the gift.

“Rubbish,” Gerontius dismissed with impatience, holding out his harp insistently. Thorin had been surprised when the old hobbit had arrived at the forge with the harp in hand, but even moreso when he attempted to offer it as a gift. “These old fingers can’t play anymore, so I may as well pass it on to someone who can make good use of it.”

Thorin inclined his head, giving the Old Took a level stare.

“Yes, yes—I know all about your particular aversion to gifts, Bilba told me all about it. Right unnatural, that is, if you ask me.” He seemed unfazed as Thorin’s features inadvertently sank into a displeased glare.

“Even if I were willing to accept such a gesture, I would be forced to leave it behind at the end of the season,” Thorin countered, folding his arms across his chest. “The wild is no place for fine instruments.”

“Then therein lies our solution!” Gerontius nodded, pleased with himself. “We’ll call it a loan—you take it off my hands for the season, give it back come spring, and perhaps in the meantime we can have a little music to lift our spirits in this dreadful winter.”

Thorin sighed, staring at the harp. If he was honest with himself, it had been far too long since he’d picked up a handsome instrument, and his heart ached for the indulgence of the dwarven melodies of his youth. That reasoning alone was insufficient to convince him to accept the gift, but coupled with the very real likelihood that Gerontius wasn’t going to take no for an answer, Thorin found himself reaching reluctantly to take the harp.

“There’s a good lad,” Gerontius nodded again with an approving smile, and the thought occurred to Thorin that the hobbit probably had no idea of the dwarf’s true age. He wasn’t going to mention it.

“As soon as the spring begins to thaw,” Thorin assured the Old Took, cradling the harp in reverent hands.

“Of course!” Gerontius’ tone suggested he wasn’t actually counting on it, but that was a hurdle that could be dealt with later. As he departed from the barn, Thorin moved to lean the harp against the wall near the hearth, but Kili’s wide, hopeful eyes stopped him in his tracks.

“Will you…?” he began, biting off the end of the question and pressing his lips together.

Thorin sighed, looking into his nephew’s bright gaze. It brought back the bitter pangs of an ancient memory, of his younger brother Frerin—who Kili bore a remarkable resemblance to—wearing the exact same expression in the days of their careless youth.

“Alright,” Thorin conceded softly, drawing a chair up to the fire and positioning the harp against his shoulder. Kili didn’t bother with a chair, but instead plopped himself down on the hard flagstone and lit his pipe. The others weren’t far behind; though most of them were preoccupied with some small task or other, every one dropped what they were doing to listen to Thorin play the harp.

Now that he had the luxury of evaluating his own skill, he discovered to his great dismay that his grasp of the intricacies of music had ebbed away over the long years. The only songs that came easily to him were the ones that he had once known like the back of his hand, including the one he had played at the party, which had been his mother’s favorite lullaby. There were some tunes that he struggled to recall—relying on the deep, humming voices of his fellows to guide him through the holes in his memory—and there were others with more intricate finger-work that he could only stumble through. He struck more than his fair share of wrong notes, and each time the pleasant melodies were interrupted by a discordant tone a frustrated stitch appeared in his brow. The others didn’t appear to take any notice, however—or they were being unjustly kind.

At length, Thorin noticed Bilba wander in and seat herself on the floor next to Kili, the expression on her face utterly entranced. He looked at her from beneath his heavy brow, taking in the way that her eyes glittered in the firelight and her fair skin was set aglow. Even as the shadows danced across her face, he could make out the constellation of freckles that dusted over her nose and cheeks, highlighting the curved bridge and upturned ball and the delicious way that her supple lips perched open just slightly. Had they been alone, he would not have had the strength of will to resist kneeling on the floor to kiss every one of those freckles, to taste her fluttering eyelids and capture her lips between his teeth. For a brief moment he indulged in the fantasy of drawing her small, soft body against his like warm butter pressed to a hot knife, and he could just picture the way her body would melt into his…

Then his fingers struck a discordant note and he refocused on the harp, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the strings and far from his peculiar hobbit infatuation. Avoiding looking at her, he reminded himself that he was _one-hundred and thirty-three years_ her elder, that she was a flighty little girl who likely had no idea what it meant to provoke the affections of a dwarf, and that pursuing an affair with her was breaking all of the rules when he was by no means a rebel. He was a leader. He was the picture of dignity and tradition. He was the example after which all his people patterned their lives and behavior. What would happen if any one of them gained so much as a glimpse at the thoughts and feelings he harbored toward Bilba?

And yet.

Still avoiding Bilba’s gaze, Thorin stole a glance at the company gathered around the hearth. They weren’t the brightest lot he could have hoped for, but they weren’t oblivious, and despite the collective efforts of Thorin and Bilba, the two of them hadn’t been subtle enough to escape the dwarves’ notice. He recalled the way that Dwalin had pulled Thorin aside to confront him on the matter several weeks ago—or the wry smiles that Bofur shot the two of them whenever they returned from one of their stolen moments alone. Some sort of quiet concern had begun to wrinkle Balin’s brow in the past month, and though Thorin had at first believed it to be a result of their awkward circumstances in the Shire, he was beginning to think that the elder dwarf had some strong opinion about this secret affair that he had yet to express. For all the consideration he had exhausted on the matter, Thorin could not for the life of him work out whether Balin might stand for or against involvement with the hobbit, and the conversation that would inevitably come was one that the leader dreaded.

After all, logic dictated that it was a very, very bad idea.

 _But_ , Thorin’s judgment wavered again as he finally ventured a glance at Bilba, this time taking in the subtle gold of her hair in the firelight and the sensuous way it exposed one side of her shapely neck. He felt a potent physical attraction the likes of which he’d never experienced before. And more than that—in the long tiring hours that passed as he labored in the forge and saw to the well-being of the Company and lay grasping at sleep in his bedroll, too often he found his mind turning back to the many personality quirks of the hobbit: how her charming little temper flared up at the most unpredictable moments, how a smile and a word from her could win over a crowd, and how her passion for life seemed to be an infectious fire that caught hold of everything in its path.

The realization struck him suddenly, and with such force that he abruptly stopped plucking at the strings of his harp and blinked helplessly at the empty air.

“Is something wrong?” Bilba asked gently, leaning forward.

His gaze found hers, and he paused only a moment to ponder those strange, fathomless blue eyes of which he had grown so fond.

“No. Nothing is wrong,” he answered, and as he started up his melody again, he decided that he couldn’t bring himself to feel any opposition toward the fact that he was falling in love with Bilba Baggins.

* * *

 

When Bilba awoke it took her a moment to regain her senses. The first thing she noticed was that she wasn’t at home. The second thing she noticed was that she was tucked up against a large, warm body that smelled strongly of leather and pipe smoke. When she shifted just slightly, she realized that she had fallen asleep against Kili, who was still breathing heavily with unconsciousness, and they had been maneuvered onto a bedroll with a warm blanket of sewn pelts draped over them. The last thing she remembered was listening to Thorin play his harp, utterly mesmerized by the loving concentration on his face as his fingers plucked delicately at the strings. She smiled blearily at the memory, almost letting it carry her back to sleep. Then someone spoke.

“I’m sorry that I was forced to leave you without more warning.” Bilba placed the voice immediately as belonging to Gandalf, and the fog of sleep began to lift from her mind. “There is something dark at work and it could not wait.”

There was a bated silence and Bilba got the distinct impression that someone was waiting for him to continue. When the pause had dragged for just a beat too long, Thorin urged him on.

“Gandalf,” he said lowly, as though he didn’t want to disturb the two slumbering at his feet, “What is wrong?” Though it was a question, he spoke it more like a command.

“When you set out from Ered Luin, you took great care as to timing, did you not? You consulted farmers to predict the turning of the season, so that you could reach the Misty Mountains before the coming of winter.”

“I did,” Thorin answered stiffly. “Obviously, the farmers were wrong. What of it?”

“They weren’t,” Gandalf contradicted, his voice grave.

“Explain.”

“This season…” There was a pause, and Bilba heard Gandalf shift in his seat, as though he were trying to find the words. “This strange winter… it came early. By _unnatural_ means.”

Thorin’s chair creaked as he leaned back, and the trailing silence weighed heavily in the air. “Dark magic,” he concluded.

“You are old enough to recall the Long Winter, I believe,” Gandalf began.

“Before the fall of Erebor,” Thorin acknowledged. “Dark days were those. Even with a ready supply of customers to purchase implements of war, Erebor nearly starved. Dale fared even worse, brought to its knees by the bitter cold. My grandfather sent dwarves out to the city of men each day to kindle dwarrow fire, hot and hardy enough to last through the long nights.”

“Indeed. King Thror was good to the people of Dale.” Bilba’s breath faltered at that, startled by the notion that Thorin might be a royal, but it was something that would have to be addressed later. For the moment, an uncomfortable silence stretched between the two and Bilba suspected that both were buried deeply in their thoughts.

“How long will it last?” Thorin asked quietly.

“I cannot say,” Gandalf admitted, his tone pained. “It could be that you will be spending much longer in the Shire than you initially planned.”

Both Bilba and Gandalf waited for a reply to that, but no answer came. When the silence was broken, it was Gandalf that spoke again. “I cannot stay, as much as I would like to. There is a great deal to be done elsewhere. Preparations to be made, precautions to take. But I will offer you one last piece of advice.”

“And what is that?” Thorin prompted, his voice grave.

“Make weapons. And not just for the men of Bree. Foul things come in the wake of dark magic, even to such bright and peaceful places as the Shire. These hobbits will not be safe in their holes forever. Protect them, Thorin Oakenshield.”

The gravity in Gandalf’s tone sent a deathly shiver through Bilba’s entire body and she bolted upright, looking straight at the wizard and letting him see the fear in her eyes. “Gandalf?”

Gandalf’s expression softened and he cast a glance toward Thorin before moving to kneel on the ground by Bilba. One large, weathered hand reached out and cupped her face, all but encompassing one side of her head. “Take care, Bilba Baggins,” he offered warmly. “Have courage. There is no winter that could quell the fire of your little lionheart.”

Though Bilba wanted to take strength from his words, inside fear made her feel cold and strangely empty. She searched for something to say in reply, but nothing came to mind, so she merely shook her head at him in helpless silence. Gandalf looked up at Thorin one last time, then climbed to his feet and turned to leave.

It took Bilba a long moment to muster her courage before she was able to turn around and look at Thorin. He was staring at her, but from the distant look in his dark eyes she also felt as though he was looking straight through her, into the clouded depths of the future. Eventually he stood up and walked away without a word, moving toward the doors that opened onto the lake. Though he had extended no invitation, vocal or otherwise, Bilba stood to follow.

Outside Thorin was leaning on the wooden balcony, staring out across the still surface of the frozen lake. The white blanket of snow brightened the darkness of the night, revealing the rolling landscape speckled with hobbit holes and dead trees. A few wispy plumes of smoke curled across the dark smear of the clouded sky, hypnotic as they spread like ashes in the wind.

“Everything’s going to be alright, isn’t it?” Bilba asked, cautiously moving to stand beside him. Thorin didn’t look at her, his severe profile cast in heavy shadow by the silver moonlight. He looked older than ever—not wrinkled or withered, but tired from the burden of the years and weighed heavily upon by age-old wisdom. She reached up and absently traced one of the streaks of silver that ran through his hair, letting it slide across her thin fingertip as she followed it over his shoulder.

Thorin glanced at her, his eyes gleaming like bright crystal in the angled light as they peered to the side. Her wandering fingers found their way to his cheek, and she ran them across his neatly trimmed beard, as though exploring the landmarks of his face might somehow reveal to her his troubled thoughts.

“It’s difficult to say,” he finally answered, and she knew that he was attempting to tell the truth while remaining tactful with his words. “You know as well as I do that a wizard is not easily shaken.”

Bilba’s hand fell and she looked down at the slick ice on the lake, trying to tamp down the fear that bubbled up in her once more. She felt Thorin’s gaze linger on her for a long moment, then his arm encircled her shoulders and drew her body close against his. She let herself be pulled without complaint, clutching at his coat and breathing in the musky scent of pipe smoke that constantly clung to his body. His presence was as solid and resolute as stone, an immoveable anchor against the bitter tide she knew to be coming, and the warmth of his arms surrounding her helped calm her mind.

“I do not know what is going to happen,” he admitted, and her eyes flickered closed as she focused on the sensation of his voice rumbling beneath her cheek. “But I swear to you, no harm shall come to you.”

Bilba shifted just enough that she could meet his gaze with wide, imploring eyes. He was looking down at her with such firm resolve, she had no choice but to believe every word.

“If it is by my last breath that you make it through this winter in safety and good health, then I will give it without question,” he continued, holding her gaze. Such an oath was frightening in its own right, so grave and full of conviction, but there was something about Thorin that made her feel safe like nothing could harm her. His presence warmed her so thoroughly that surely the coldest winter could do nothing to faze such a flame.

She was still pondering that warmth when he leaned down, pressing his lips to her eyelids as they fell closed, and suddenly there was a fire beneath her skin. She savored his hot breath as it washed over her face, while he reverently pressed slow, soft kisses to her nose and cheeks again and again.

“What are you doing?” Bilba asked, blushing, though she could already guess the object of his sudden affection.

“Kissing your freckles,” he explained, the corner of his lips turning up in a slight smile.

She angled her face downward bashfully, but his large fingers caught her by the chin and urged it upward again, forcing her to meet his eye. “When I was a girl,” she stammered, “My mother said they were kisses from the sun.”

“I’ve never envied the sun before,” he replied, pressing his lips to the cold tip of her nose. “Yet it has kissed you so many more times than I.” One of his hands tugged daringly at the shoulder of her dress, pulling it aside just enough to reveal the dusting of freckles there. “It seems I have some catching up to do.” He eyed her shoulder as though tempted to explore that particular spot with his mouth next. The thought made Bilba shiver with delight, but he resisted, instead leaning down to catch her lips with his own. She accepted the kiss gladly, her body arching instinctively into his, and she felt his strong arms wind tight around her waist and nearly lift her off the ground in his eagerness to draw her closer. Another wave of heat swept through her body, spreading from her head to her toes, and not for the first time she found herself wishing that she could give herself to him completely. She settled instead for giving him everything in her kiss—expressing all of her hidden desires with the fumbling eloquence of lips sliding against each other, of caressing tongues and teeth teasing tender skin.

When the kiss finally broke, Thorin rested his forehead against Bilba’s and breathed a heavy sigh. “Selfish though it may be, I have one very substantial reason to be grateful for this long, dark winter,” he murmured quietly. “It has brought me you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Points eagerly at chapter* PLOOOT. PLOT, SEE?? IT EXISTS. It was requested that we have another chapter from Thorin’s POV, so hopefully you guys enjoyed that bit. In the meantime, we’re finally getting somewhere with the Fell Winter. Tough times ahead, hope you’re ready. ;)
> 
> I also feel like I should give fair warning: eventually I’m going to have to up the rating of this fic to Mature. I apologize for any readers that will be inconvenienced by the change, but I didn’t have the plot completely worked out when I started posting chapters, so I didn’t know quite where the content would fall. I’ll leave it as teen for now, since there’s nothing more than some suggestive thoughts so far, but be warned that eventually there will be violence and, at the very least, implied sex. Hopefully that doesn’t put anyone off.


	10. Fighting Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin gives Bilba a belated Yule present.

“Thorin, this is—this is…” Bilba struggled to find the proper words as she reached out for the small blade cradled in his large hands, her fingers simultaneously hesitant and itching to touch the masterfully crafted weapon. “Is it really for me?”

“Go ahead, lass,” Balin encouraged, nodding. She could feel the eyes of the Company on her, brimming with silent pride.

She tentatively lifted the thing by the hilt and held it aloft, marveling at how strangely right it felt in her hand. The weight was still unwieldy to her inexperienced arm and she knew that she would have to begin strength training if she intended to use the blade with anything resembling dignity, but it wasn’t nearly as heavy as the swords that Fili had showed off, and the length was far more manageable for her size.

“I began crafting it shortly after we had the forge in order,” Thorin told her, watching her grow acquainted with the weapon. “As soon as I could find good enough steel. I would not stoop to work with anything less than the best.”

Bilba traced her fingers over the geometric maze of carvings that covered the hilt and trailed down along the blade, as much a masterpiece of art as war. It was staggering to think about the delicacy and care that must have surely gone into such beautiful work. “I’m…” she shook her head helplessly, unable to tear her eyes away from the sword. “I’m speechless. This is the most beautiful thing that anyone has ever given me.”

“As if Thorin Oakenshield would stand to be outdone by one Tolman Cotton,” Bofur remarked slyly.

“With a river stone, no less,” Gloin added, snorting. Several other members of the Company voiced their agreement.

Bilba finally looked away from the sword, giving them the same chastising look that she might an unruly nephew. “That’s hardly fair,” she said defensively. “Tolman Cotton is a dear boy who gives from his heart. It’s not his fault that he’s not a master craftsman with nearly two-hundred years’ experience.” She looked back at the sword, admiring it once more. “I adore Tolman as well as the Yule gift he gave me. But I’ll admit,” she added with a half-smile, “It certainly does pale in comparison.”

The dwarves gave a good-natured cheer at that, but it was quieted almost immediately when she set the sword safely aside and moved toward Thorin. Hooking her arms around his neck, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his cheek, letting them linger a beat too long for the kiss to be considered just friendly. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice a little too intimate.

Though his arm wound stiffly around her back in awkward reciprocation of her gesture, she could see his eyes dart warily toward his fellows, and when he finally met her eyes the silent message rang loud and clear. _You’re playing with fire._

With a sigh feigning carelessness, Bilba slipped away from the embrace and picked up the sword again. “So, then, who’s going to teach me how to use this thing?” she asked, trying to mask the strange pang of frustration she felt with concealing their relationship from the Company. It was Thorin’s right as their leader, of course—she had no doubt that he probably wanted to keep up a strong image, and she didn’t know enough about dwarven culture to know how their relationship might be viewed by the others. Still, there were days when all of the secrecy wore her down. (As if she wasn’t equally guilty of keeping it from the folks of Hobbiton, she reminded herself whenever such thoughts arose.)

“Well,” Fili remarked smoothly, one of his own swords appearing in his hand, “Logically speaking it ought to be the best swordsman in the Company.” Several dwarves groaned and protested at that, and Fili was forced to bat away a thrown biscuit that came from Kili’s direction.

“Oh, aye?” Dwalin spat cantankerously. “And what about the ones who taught _you_ , eh?” He gestured to include Balin and Thorin, and it required all of Bilba’s willpower to avoid letting her mind wander to how Thorin might look wielding a sword.

“I’m not sure Miss Baggins would _survive_ your way of teaching, Dwalin,” Fili returned, his blond brow furrowing in disapproval.

“This again!” grunted Dwalin. “Believe it or not, wee pup, I do know how to be gentle.”

“Let’s not test that on Bilba, if you please,” Kili chimed, moving to throw a protective arm around her shoulders.

“Ha! As if I’d be tempted,” Dwalin’s lip pulled up in aversion. “No meat, remember?”

“ _Meatgrinder_ ,” Fili muttered under his breath.

“I’m sorry?” Bilba asked, her gaze jumping between them in confusion.

Dori coughed loudly. “Go on and let the boys have their way,” he offered diplomatically. “Allowing, of course, for _adult supervision_.”

Fili and Kili gave Dori the same sour look. “Adult--?”

“Oh, enough already!” Bilba laughed, slapping them both on their shoulders. “Let’s just get on with it!”

Despite the initial scuffle, the dwarves handled tutoring Bilba with the blade surprisingly well. Whenever the Company worked together on something, she was shocked at how easily they played off of each other, and the lesson was no exception.

Fili and Kili took up the primary occupation of teaching her, with Fili acting the part of an opponent and Kili working alongside her. Many of the dwarves remained nearby to watch, however, and every so often one of them would step in, offering some helpful tidbit of advice or experience. Though she’d been afraid of the prospect of learning to fight, she soon found herself enjoying the lesson. She doubted that their own first lessons with weaponry had been so gentle, so she was surprised by the ease with which they handled a completely inexperienced hobbit girl.

“Mind your footing,” Kili said, his gaze darting anxiously between her feet and her sword. “And keep that tip up!”

Bilba’s sword shot upright just in time to block a comparatively slow, gentle blow from Fili. Admittedly, her arm was already beginning to grow tired from the weight of the weapon, but she was too proud to say anything. She’d continue working until her teachers dismissed her.

“Vertical to parry, horizontal to attack,” Thorin said quietly from the side. Like many of the others, he’d remained close-by to watch, but already an hour into the lesson, this was the first time he interjected any advice of his own. As he stood and entered the loose ring of open space where they practiced, Fili and Kili stood back respectfully.

“Say again?” Bilba asked, her sword already drooping.

“The most important thing is to develop an instinctive response to the axis of your enemy,” he said, pressing himself against her back and wrapping his hand over hers to bring the sword erect in the air. His other hand slid innocently onto her hip, pulling her to his body and urging her to stand on his boots to match his footing. She exerted every ounce of willpower in her being to focus on the lesson, rather than the hardness of his body against hers and the heat he emanated like a furnace. Kili was wide-eyed and Fili looked strangely drawn, but Bilba ignored them.

“An enemy that stands on two feet represents a vertical axis,” Thorin explained patiently. “Your best chance of striking them is to swing your blade horizontally, across their body—like this.” He guided her arm through the arc of motion. “Likewise, your enemy’s attacks are most likely to strike on a horizontal axis, which means your best chance of blocking their attack and deflecting their weapon is to parry vertically.” At a nod from Thorin, Fili moved forward and sluggishly enacted a basic swing at Bilba’s body, which Thorin positioned her blade to block.

“However, this will not always be the case. An opponent on four legs, for example, might be more vulnerable to a vertical attack, and likewise defended against with a horizontal block. Or an experienced opponent may seek to use this convention against you by trying to find a hole in your defenses with unlikely angles.” Another nod from Thorin, and Fili brought one sword in a downward slash. Thorin guided Bilba into a new stance, adjusting their footing as he angled her blade to deflect Fili’s blow.

“The first step in learning to fight with a sword effectively is to develop an instinctive response to the angles of your opponent, adjusting the axis of your attacks and parries to compliment—and compromise—theirs.” Thorin’s hand slid across her belly, and as her breath wavered just a little she found herself thinking about who was playing with fire now.

“Try for yourself,” he murmured in her ear, leaning down just enough to let the heat of his breath wash over her ear. She barely managed to suppress a shiver as he extracted his feet and stepped away, beckoning to Fili for his sword. The nephews were looking at him as if they’d seen a ghost, but Fili surrendered his weapon, and Thorin appeared to pay the two of them no heed.

He shifted his feet into a ready stance and lifted the blade as easily as if it were an extension of his own arm. Bilba raised her sword tip high again and mimicked his stance, trying to ready herself for whatever attack may come, but inwardly she was panicking just a little. She was about to make a fool of herself, she was sure of it.

Thorin lunged forward at her, giving the sword in his hand a flourishing twirl before bringing it across in a basic horizontal strike. Though he moved with a deliberate slowness, she couldn’t help but marvel at the grace of his skill. She felt clumsy by comparison when she adjusted the angle of her blade to catch his and fumbled her feet into a stronger position.

Despite the success of her parry, he didn’t stop. Withdrawing his blade he twirled it upward and brought it down in a diagonal cut that required a more challenging angle on her part, and when he immediately followed it through with an upward slash from below, she struggled to deflect his strength as she brought her blade into a horizontal position. She was certain she made quite the spectacle set up against Thorin’s practiced form, but when he stepped back, he nodded in satisfaction.

“That will do for now,” he said, signaling the end of the lesson. “The next thing we must do is develop your strength. We can show you some exercises to practice whenever you have the time.”

“Alright,” she agreed passively. The lesson was a great deal to take in, but she knew that it would all be rattling around in her brain whenever she had the time to think. Though the thought of combat scared her, there was also something very empowering about the thought of learning to use a sword properly. She had never savored the thought of being defenseless and she was incredibly grateful that the dwarves were so anxious to equip her with the means to protect herself.

Then a thought occurred to her and, letting a mischievous light creep into her eyes, Bilba sauntered toward Thorin and let her free hand creep lightly along his thick forearm. “You handle a weapon masterfully, Thorin,” she said, not bothering to conceal her suggestive smile.

Dori coughed, Ori turned beet red, and Kili’s jaw dropped nearly to the floor. But even as Bofur’s trilling laughter filled the room and he struggled to maintain balance atop his chair, Bilba kept her gaze steadily on Thorin.

For perhaps the very first time, he didn’t seem to know what to do. He stared at her for a long moment, eyebrows lifting infinitesimally in subtle surprise—then, as though he couldn’t suppress it any longer, a small smile crept onto his lips. “You have yet to see me at my best, Miss Baggins,” he countered in mock humility. “Nevertheless—I suspect I could please you.”

There was an audible smack as Kili covered his face with his hands and doubled over, and Fili stared at his uncle with a furrowed brow as though he didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. Nori looked on with his arms hands folded across his chest, nodding in silent approval, and Dwalin muttered a string of low curses that was answered with something in Khuzdul by Bifur.

“Well done, lass,” Balin remarked dryly. “You’ve broken the Company.”

Bilba snorted with laughter and spun to move away from Thorin, dangling her sword lazily at her side. But her amusement was short-lived, interrupted by a feminine voice from the door.

“My, my—you’re really doing everything you can to turn yourself into a dwarf, aren’t you?” Bilba didn’t have to turn to know it was Lobelia. She hadn’t noticed when the door to the barn had opened, but a knack for stealth was intrinsic to all hobbits.

Somehow, Bilba didn’t have the energy to let Lobelia’s venom offend her. “Do you ever get tired of carrying your foot in your mouth, Lobelia?” Bilba retorted lazily, still holding the sword as she turned to face Lobelia.

“How soon until you start sporting your very own facial hair?” Lobelia shot back, a pout crossing her lips. She moved into the barn, and to Bilba’s surprise, Marmadas Brandybuck followed her through the open door.

“Oh, lovely,” Bilba muttered under her breath, moving to sheath the sword Thorin had given her. Despite a few appealing possibilities, she could only surmise that anything that happened with Lobelia and Marmadas while she was holding a naked blade would ultimately be bad.

“What are the two of you doing here?” Bilba asked, giving them her best unimpressed stare. It wasn’t difficult—after her workout with the boys, she felt that no amount of malicious gossip could faze her.

“I need a hoe,” Marmadas provided innocently as he and Lobelia drew near.

Bilba glanced at the dwarves, who had miraculously sobered from the racy exchange with Thorin only moments before. Oin was already moving to retrieve the tool from the small inventory they were slowly stocking up.

“Buy it and begone, then,” Bilba grumbled. “I’m in no mood for more mud-slinging.”

“Well, when you make it so easy,” Lobelia huffed.

“No, no, Bilba’s right,” Marmadas offered diplomatically. Stepping toward her, he hooked his arm around her shoulders and drew her close, but she only managed to look up at him in annoyance. “I’ll have no such talk aimed at my future wife.”

“Oh!” Bilba cried, extracting herself forcefully from his grip. “You’ve got some cheek!”

“Bilba, darling, let’s not go fooling ourselves,” he placated, resting a hand over his heart melodramatically.

Bilba seized her sheathed sword and thwacked it against his rear. “Get out!” she ordered. “Get out, get out, get out!”

Oin held onto the hoe helplessly as Bilba ushered the pair of halflings back toward the door. “Nosy, delusional, presumptuous, good-for-nothing busybodies!” she growled under her breath. When she’d shut the door behind them, she leaned against the wood and let her head fall back with an audible thunk.

“Y’ have to admire his persistence,” Bofur commented, canting his head like a puppy.

“I don’t have to admire his _anything_ ,” Bilba quipped, shooting him a dirty look that discouraged further discussion.

“Bilba with facial hair.” Fili was staring contemplatively at her, stroking the braided strands of his moustache.

“Fascinating.” Kili joined his brother in his contemplation, tilting his head and furrowing his brow. A few of the others began following suit, and somehow the thought of what images might be passing through their minds made her uncomfortable.

“I’m leaving,” she announced with mock cheer, punctuating her point with one finger jabbed into the air in front of her.

“How d’you suppose she’d style her beard?” asked Bofur, who had turned around in his seat and was now straddling the back like a child. She was mildly horrified that they were continuing the conversation, and hustled to gather her things and make her escape.

“Braided, most definitely,” Fili observed sagely.

“Say—we ought to braid Bilba’s hair sometime!” Kili proclaimed, clearly excited by the prospect. This started a new gaggle of scattered conversation, and Bilba all but ran home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m determined to get at least two more chapters written before Christmas. Half of the next chapter is already finished, so I'm sure I can manage it. I think you guys will be pleased with what’s coming—consider it my Christmas present to you.
> 
> As far as this chapter goes, I’d like to note that I know nothing about swordplay. So hopefully if there’s anyone out there who does, I don’t manage to butcher it too badly.
> 
> Also, the response to my upping the age rating of this fic has been overwhelmingly supportive, so you can look forward to things getting a little racier between Thorin and Bilba in the future. Among other things. (Muahahaha.)


	11. Unlikely Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Dwalin have a discussion about Bilba and the dwarves debate about braiding her hair. Thorin takes some groceries to Bag End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of three chapters I'll be posting tonight, so stay tuned! The next one should be up in a few minutes!
> 
> Admittedly, it's fairly short, but I felt like it should be separated from the next chapter.

“I suspect I could please you,” mocked Dwalin in a simpering voice. “Oooh, Thorin!” The warrior’s impression of Bilba was less than flattering and it brought a scowl to Thorin’s face. Fortunately, the two of them were alone; Dwalin had dragged Thorin out by the water the moment the hobbit had fled the barn.

“You great lumbering dolt!” Dwalin continued, punching Thorin hard in the shoulder. “Have ye lost your mind??”

“I fail to see how it’s any concern of yours,” Thorin answered stiffly, folding his arms across his chest. He’d known this was coming for a long time, but that didn’t lessen the burn of humiliated irritation that rose up in his belly.

“It’s every concern of mine!” Dwalin roared. “As well as theirs!” He jerked one large hand in the direction of the barn interior, followed by a finger that pointed accusatorially at Thorin. “ _You_ are our _king_. Or had ye forgotten?”

Thorin sighed, turning away to face the frozen water as he felt a dull ache spring up somewhere behind his temples. He had never once regretted the weight of his birthright—until now. Because deep down, he knew Dwalin had a point.

“Thorin,” Dwalin’s tone softened, as though he intended to speak with a little more reason. “Y’ know we always wanted this for you. To find yourself a mate, settle down, have a few brats of your own. Like your sister.” Thorin spared him a glance at the mention of Dis, knowing Dwalin had always concealed feelings for the princess.

“But not like this,” Dwalin continued resolutely, the gravity in his stare daring Thorin to stray off-subject. “Not with—“ his lip curled into a sneer and he struggled to find the right description—“one of these _pint-sized elves_. A good _dwarrowdam_ is what you need. Someone who can bear you an heir.”

Thorin’s gaze fell and he looked out across the dark ice. “I am no stranger to your hopes,” he said quietly. “I’ve always known what you—and the others—wanted. But search as I did, it was not something I found among our people.”

Dwalin stared at him with his brow furrowed heavily, looking utterly betrayed.

“Perhaps the fact that I am your king is the heart of the problem,” Thorin mused. “I have borne the mantle of my title diligently all my life, without question or complaint. There are few who are capable of seeing me as anything else.” His hands found their way to the wood of the railing, still covered with a thin coat of crusty snow from the last storm.

“She does not know who I am. Or what I am, or where I come from. She has not heard the stories of what I have done, nor the prophecies of what I must do.” He paused, lost in his thoughts for an elusive moment, then he looked to his loyal friend.

“How could I love anyone else, knowing that she might love me for nothing _more_ or _less_ than exactly what I am?” he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. “I cannot say how it happened, or why. And I cannot deny that I have had the very same thoughts as those you have just now expressed. But this…” he shook his head, unable to find words that could even come close to conveying his feelings. “Strange fire that has sparked in the most unlikely of places. I have wrestled with it since the moment we arrived in the Shire, and I have come to realize that it is a losing battle.”

He paused, letting the silence hang in the still night air. Dwalin appeared to have lost his gall for the fight, standing quietly at Thorin’s side. “Have you ever felt it, Dwalin? Hunger for someone like a fire needs air?” Thorin continued, well aware that his words were more for his own sake than his friend’s. After months of concealing such thoughts, it was cathartic to finally speak them aloud. “She’s a peculiar infection that sends heat through my blood, and I find myself wanting to submit more and more each day. I wish that I could appease our people, for I know my actions here would cause them nothing but grief. But this feeling…” He shook his head again, not daring to look at the warrior.

It was quiet for too long a moment, and just before Thorin was about to glance to the side, Dwalin finally spoke. “I’ll be damned.”

Thorin didn’t answer, but sighed and clutched the wooden banister a little tighter.

“Yer really serious about the lass, aren’t you?”

“I can’t deny what I feel.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dwalin fold his arms. “What are you going to do about it, then? Ye can’t marry her.”

Though they both knew that it was premature to even mention marriage, Thorin felt a painful pang in his chest. He leaned forward on the balcony, resting his weight on his forearms. “I know I can’t,” he answered dully.

“I s’pose you could keep her in Erebor,” Dwalin offered after a moment. “Like—like a, uh—“

“Pet,” Thorin supplied, shooting him a glare. “No.”

Dwalin turned up his palms helplessly, as though Thorin needed confirmation that a viable solution was beyond his reach. “I cannae help you,” he admitted. “It’s the throne, or the girl. You can’t have both. You know that as well as I do.”

Thorin had felt the reality of the fact creeping up on him whenever he thought ahead to the aftermath of their impending quest, but to hear it laid out so plainly now was like a blow to the gut. Thorin closed his eyes in a subtle wince, making no move to stop Dwalin as he tromped back into the barn.

He wasn’t angry at his friend, tactless though he continued to be. The warrior was never anything less than honest, and he had a way of laying out the facts with a brutal clarity that had won Thorin’s respect early on. Ordinarily, it was a character trait that was well-appreciated. This time, however, it only seemed to worsen the bind that Thorin was getting himself into.

He remained outside a few minutes longer before reentering the barn. When he did, he found that most of the Company were still engaged in an over-enthusiastic discussion about Bilba’s hair. Fili even had thin tendrils of Kili’s hair twined through his fingers, practicing an elaborate braid he intended for Bilba. Thorin stopped behind him, watching as he fumbled to construct the braid just right.

“Hm,” Thorin made a quietly observant noise in the back of his throat. The braid vaguely resembled those worn by his nephews, with a few subtly amorous touches. By dwarven standards, it was a very suggestive hairstyle, and among their own people it would have implied a romantic engagement with one of them.

“Perhaps the two of you mean to tell me something?” Thorin said, his eyebrows lifting as the two started. Kili turned and looked guiltily at his uncle, pulling the strands of hair from his brother’s fingers and ruining the braid.

“We thought it would—look… nice…” Fili’s explanation died in his throat and he dropped his gaze.

Bofur tutted and moved to nudge Fili aside, taking hold of the accepted facsimile for Bilba’s hair. “I keep tellin’ ‘em, _this_ is what they ought to do!”

With impressive deftness, Bofur sectioned off the hair and began braiding the individual pieces. Once again, the styling carried significant implications in their culture; his braids expressed acceptance of Bilba as one of their own, which surprised Thorin, and went on to pay homage to her culinary skill and beauty—two traits that were admired among the dwarves. Dwalin grunted dry dissatisfaction, but said nothing. Thorin watched with his arms folded, surprised to learn what a strong impression Bilba had left on the others.

“No, no, let me see!” Ori pushed Bofur out of the way before he had finished his braids and combed them out with his fingers. Kili twitched with annoyance in front of him, as though he was tired of being experimented on, but remained compliant.

Ori’s suggestion was even more surprising than the rest. His braids were those reserved for warriors of great courage with stout hearts, whose deeds were revered. Balin shook his head and waved a hand of dissent at Ori. “That will never do,” he protested. “She’s barely a child. She cannot even use a weapon!”

“But to her people!” Ori defended emphatically. “You’ve seen how fierce she is when she stands up to other hobbits! I think when she learns to use her sword she’ll make an excellent warrior.”

That provoked an entirely new line of debate, and as all the members of the Company began expressing their own opinions on the matter, the room erupted into chaos.

“Enough!” ordered Thorin, his voice carrying loud and clear over the hubbub. The dwarves silenced immediately. “Do as you will. To the hobbits it will be nothing more than a pretty hairstyle. And no one touches a hair on her head without her express permission.”

A few of the dwarves gave bashful nods at that. Thorin stalked away to find something to occupy his hands, but he knew further discussion on the topic would follow him the rest of the evening.

* * *

 

“This is so very generous of you, Mister Oakenshield, I don’t know quite how to thank you!” Belladonna Baggins was practically fluttering as she stocked one of the pantries of Bag End with the large helping of groceries he’d brought. The news from Gandalf had made it apparent to him that lean times were ahead for all of the Shire, and he knew he would be making many more deliveries of food before the season was over.

“You need not thank me,” he assured her, remaining respectfully in the hallway. “Your family has been more than generous in the months since our arrival in the Shire. This is the least I can do to return to such hospitality.”

Belladonna hesitated just a little, her movements slowing by a fraction. “Yes, Bilba’s taken quite the shining to you,” she said, though something in her tone was strange. Thorin felt a pang of nervousness that perhaps she knew about the two of them, but if she did she said nothing.

“As the Company has to her,” he returned. And that was truer than she could possibly know.

She sighed, setting down a jar of preserves, and when she looked over her shoulder at him Thorin could tell that a moment of truth was on the tip of her tongue. Despite that, he found himself growing momentarily distracted. With Belladonna looking up at him so earnestly she bore a striking resemblance to her daughter. Though she was beginning to show signs of age, her features were still soft and kind, weathered by years of experience and wisdom, with a certain dignified fearlessness. If this was how Bilba would look with a few more years on her precious bones, he felt he would somehow only love her more for it.

“I’ll admit, when you first came here I was worried. Afraid, even. Bilba’s a spirited girl—a Took through and through—with an infatuation for adventure that I hope she’ll grow out of someday. Bungo and I both knew that it would be impossible to keep her away from you, so we didn’t try. We’ve watched as day after day, she’s spent her free time cavorting with dwarves, reading about dwarves, talking about dwarves…” She stopped, smiling warmly, and Thorin knew the affection on her face wasn’t for him. “I don’t know if you realize this, but you’ve turned her whole life upside down. Even if you left tomorrow, I think she’d be a changed hobbit.”

Belladonna moved quietly toward the door of the pantry, leaning on the rounded frame to look at him. “It worried me at first. But it doesn’t anymore. Because you’ve been so good to her, Thorin. You and all of your dwarves. She loves you dearly, and you’ve been kind in the face of that love, and for that I believe that you’re good folk. I want you to know that you’ll always be welcome in our smial.”

It was wholly unexpected, and Thorin was forced to avert his gaze downward, fighting the small bubble of guilt that welled up inside. If Belladonna knew his thoughts about her daughter, would she be so quick to praise him?

“You are too kind, mistress,” he said quietly. Belladonna merely smiled and reached out to squeeze his arm affectionately, then turned to busy herself with the groceries once more. Thorin took it as a signal to go, and started down the hallway toward the door.

“Thorin?” As he passed an open door he heard Bilba call his name and instinctively turned. He assumed it was her bedroom; modestly furnished, with a healthy collection of trinkets and books and small plants in pots, she was moving toward the door clad only in a thin nightgown.

“I was only stopping by for a moment,” he told her, schooling his gaze.

“I see.” Her fingers twitched, as though she wanted to touch him, and after a moment she reached out and settled a hand on his forearm.

“This is your bedroom?” he questioned, noting the shy blush on her cheeks as she ducked her head. “Comfortable.”

“Small,” she countered. “But—yes, comfortable.” As she shifted to look over her shoulder at the room, he heard a drip and spotted a pot on the floor beside her feet.

“Is there a leak?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“Er, yes.” She glanced down at the pot on the floor. “I’ve spoken to my father about it—we’ll fix it soon enough.”

Thorin gently nudged his way into the room, looking up at the beams of the ceiling where passing winters had worked the wood out of place. “I could fix that for you,” he said, mentally dissecting the task.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it,” Bilba insisted, looking embarrassed. “I’m sure my father can take care of it.”

“I could come back,” Thorin suggested, looking down at her. “Perhaps tomorrow? Surely you would sleep easier, if nothing else.”

Bilba paused, as though the sudden realization of something were dawning on her. Then her lips twitched into a smile and she looked up at him with bright eyes. “Yes, that sounds like an excellent idea,” she said with a nod. “Come back tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sassmaster Dwalin. Hopefully I do his awesome accent justice.
> 
> It was requested that we see a little more about braiding Bilba's hair from the dwarves' perspective. It will also come up in future chapters.
> 
> And-- yes, Bilba, why don't you let Thorin fix that leak for you. ;)


	12. It's Cold Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin comes to fix the leak in Bilba's bedroom and she persuades him to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want you to know that I've been waiting to write this chapter since the beginning of this fic. Again, this chapter is shorter than usual but it needed to be separated from the next section.

When Thorin arrived at Bag End the next evening, he could only guess that it was nearly sunset from the wan light cast over the white clouds. They were thick and heavy with a storm, and even as he neared the familiar green door, a bitter wind was beginning to pick up and large flurries were tumbling to the ground. He knew he would have to be quick about his business if he didn’t want to be caught in a nasty storm on his way back to the forge.

To his surprise, Bilba was all dressed up when she opened the door. Despite the season, she was wearing the luscious gold dress she’d donned the first night they met, with its temptingly low neckline and wide shoulders. He spared an appreciative glance for the bared skin as he stepped inside, drinking in the sight of her freckled shoulders and bare neck. Her curls were pinned up to expose the fine chain of a modest necklace, with a teardrop shaped moonstone that came to rest just above the enticing swell of her breasts.

“Good evening, Master Oakenshield,” she greeted, her lips set into a suggestive smile.

“Good evening, Miss Baggins,” he replied, looking her over one last time before tearing his eyes away. He unclasped his cloak and hung it on one of the pegs near the door, and somewhere in the back of his mind he commended himself for having such godly restraint, tempting as it was to ravish the girl then and there. Of course, he still had a task to perform. Now he knew she was going to test his will, he had even more motivation to get it done as quickly as possible.

Bilba sauntered down the hallway, pushing open the door to her bedroom, then leaned against the doorframe, waiting for him. He sighed and gathered the bundle of tools he’d brought along, tromping after her. He felt her eyes on him as he moved into the bedroom and began examining the leak, but he did his best to stay focused on his task, setting to work immediately. Bilba lingered a moment longer but made no attempt to start up conversation, and eventually disappeared from the door.

The leak in question was an easy fix, a small crack that need only be filled. Within a few minutes he had finished and he headed straight for the door, intent on escaping as quickly as possible.

Bilba crept up silently behind him. Though he didn’t hear or see her, he could feel her eyes on his back as he examined the pegs in the entry.

“Bilba,” he said levelly, “Where is my cloak?”

“Your cloak?” she asked innocently.

Thorin turned and gave her a warning look. “My winter cloak. I hung it just there.”

“Are you certain you brought it with you?” she continued coyly.

His eyes narrowed by a fraction. “Where are your parents?”

“They aren’t here,” she answered with a nonchalant shrug, but he could see that she was brimming with glee beneath the façade. “Visiting relatives in Long Cleeve. They’ll be gone all night,” she added with a significant look. “So it’s just the two of us.”

So that was her game. He could see where she was going with this, and all signs pointed toward trouble.

“Stay and have supper with me, won’t you? Bag End can be so lonely when I’m by myself, and I’m afraid I’ve prepared much more than I can eat on my own. I’ve even got a bit of apple cider warming.”

Just as Thorin opened his mouth to protest, she spoke again. “Perhaps if you stay a while your elusive cloak may even turn up,” she interjected innocently.

He shifted to glance out the window beside the door, eyeing the storm outside. The snow was coming down hard now, and was sure to get worse by the minute. “After supper I’m leaving,” he assured her.

As it was, she hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said she had plenty of food. It was a bountiful meal, and despite his better judgment, he allowed himself to be persuaded to rest in one of the comfortable chairs by the fire as Bilba saw to the dishes and served the hot cider she’d promised. Placing two steaming cups on the table beside his chair, she settled herself in his lap without the slightest hesitation, resting one arm across his shoulders and letting the other hand wander across his face. He let her feather-light fingers explore his features as they seemed to love doing, feeling his resolve to leave beginning to crumble under the influence of her caress.

“Alone at last,” she mused, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on his mouth. From there her lips strayed, exploring the topography of his face with quivering breath and touches that mingled imperceptibly with kisses. Her wandering hand scraped nails through his beard, then lower, down along his throat. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, every fiber of his being fighting an inward struggle.

“Is something wrong?” she murmured against his ear, in a throaty purr that was entirely new and delicious to him.

“I should go,” he answered, his voice equally hushed and just a little rough.

“No,” she whispered as though it was perfectly within her power to command him. And perhaps she wasn’t entirely wrong. As she caught the lobe of his ear between her lips and teased her tongue across the sensitive skin, he made a noise in the back of his throat.

“Temptress,” he growled, shaking his head just a little.

“Stay.” Her fingernails scraped through his short beard again and he resisted the impulse to shiver.

With a sigh, he thought of the Company that was waiting for him back at the forge, and it was enough to sober him just a little. “The others will be waiting for me,” he said with quiet resignation, lifting her off of his lap. She pouted as he stood and took a long drink of cider. “You’ve been most hospitable, but I must take my leave now.”

“The others can wait,” she insisted.

“You’ve never seen Dwalin when he’s forced to wait,” Thorin retorted, and he meant it. Dwarves were not known for their patience. “He’ll stand by the door all night if he must.” And then he would most likely try to hurt Thorin.

“I’ll be all alone.” Bilba looked up at him with imploring eyes.

“Dori will pace a hole through the floor,” Thorin added, starting toward the hallway.

“But look at that storm!” she scurried after him, pointing at the window.

“Bofur’s filthy mind will run rampant.”

“It’s cold, darling, don’t go!” she was pleading, now, a childish desperation in her voice.

Thorin paused at that, looking wryly over his shoulder at her as he stood in front of the door. “Then give me back my cloak.”

Bilba stiffened, throwing her shoulders back and raising her chin. “No.”

“Bilba,” he warned, turning and walking back toward her. Even as he advanced on her like an avalanche she didn’t waver. There was something incredibly enticing about her playful resistance, the way she ruthlessly teased him in a way that no dwarf would ever dare. He stopped only a step away, leveling a meaningful gaze at her.

“I’ll never surrender!” she cried suddenly, then turned on her heel and darted down the hall in a flash of gold skirts.

Thorin sighed and stalked after her, the footfalls of his boots heavy against the wooden floor. She had already disappeared from the hallway, so he began checking each door as he passed, peering inside for the elusive girl. He also kept one eye open for his cloak, though he suspected that its recovery might warrant a more thorough search.

“Bilba, this is juvenile,” he growled, ducking his head into her bedroom.

“Yes, but it’s working, isn’t it?”

He turned, trying to follow the sound of her voice. It led him to the parlor, where she was splayed enticingly in his chair with her cup of cider in hand.

“I could force you to tell me where it is,” he warned, leaning against the doorframe.

“Mm.” She arched a mischievous eyebrow, nursing her cup near her lips. “Sounds delightful. When can we start?”

Despite himself, he smiled. She was the most willful hobbit he knew and he couldn’t help loving her for it. He moved into the parlor and leaned over her chair, his bulky presence effectively trapping her as he wrapped one of his large hands around her ankle, letting it stray upward along the smooth skin of her leg. “Tell me.”

Her breath hitched a little and her eyes grew dark. “I shan’t.”

Tempting though it was to let his hand slip higher beneath her skirt, as his palm passed over the knob of her knee he withdrew, moving his fingers to explore her shoulder next. He trailed his index and middle fingers up toward the column of her neck, transfixed by the smoothness of her skin, watching as their calloused tips made her shiver. When he reached the fine chain of her necklace, he followed it down her chest, letting his thumb trace a daring arc over the swell of her breast. He watched with fascination as she took one fluttering breath after another, straining against her constricting bodice.

“Tell me,” he murmured again, his voice lower as he met her blue eyes. They had grown wide with eager anticipation.

“You never finished your cider,” she breathed, and her lips turned up into a small smile.

“Fair point,” he conceded, eyeing his cup on the table. “But you never gave me my cloak.”

Bilba’s face split into an easy grin and she breathed a laugh. “And here they told me you have no sense of humor.”

He answered her smile with one of his own, leaning down to capture her lips for a kiss. As they parted in a wash of cider spiced breath, he bumped his nose against her cheek. “Bilba please,” he urged quietly, his voice rough as he wrestled with temptation. “I must go. Give me my cloak.”

“You don’t have to go,” she whined. “The storm is bad enough that the Company wouldn’t question if you stayed the night.” Her eyes drifted open, large blue orbs glittering up at him imploringly. “I could keep you much warmer than that drafty old barn.”

He moved toward her again, eager to taste her lips, but at the last moment withdrew and straightened. She was probably right, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. Instead he turned and started wordlessly to the door again, knowing that if he lingered any longer, his resolve would crumble completely.

“Why are you so anxious to leave?” she called, following him toward the front of the smial. “Do you—“ she sucked in a sharp breath and stopped in her tracks. “Do you not want me?”

Thorin froze, turning to look at her. “No,” he answered immediately, willing her to believe him. “I want you… badly. That is why I must go.”

Her eyebrows lifted by a fraction, silently questioning.

“I am trying to protect your virtue, Bilba,” he said insistently, suppressing an edge of irritation. “But you’re making it very difficult for me.”

“Has it not occurred to you,” she said, gliding slowly across the floor to him, “That I don’t want my virtue protected?”

Thorin swallowed thickly as he stared down at her. “Bilba,” he said in a low voice, his tone grave. “Have you ever—“ he paused, hesitating at his own bluntness. “Have you ever been taken to bed?”

Her gaze dropped to the floor and her fingers fidgeted with her skirt. “No,” she answered, and the strength in her voice surprised him. “But I’ve heard talk from others—those who are married, or who’ve had dalliances of their own. I know what’s what. And I know, more than anything, that I want my first to be you.”

Something in his gut clenched at that admission, and he knew he wore his uncertainty on his face when she looked up at him with that same willfulness he had come to love.

“You’re not like any of the others,” she said, her body stiff with vehemence. “Not even the other dwarves. I have never, not once in my life, felt for anyone the way I feel for you. And if I can’t have anything else, then give me this, Thorin, please. _Be my first_.”

And there it was—the final blow, the words that convinced him to stay. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, wavering one last time, then he felt her hands splay across his chest and he knew he didn’t have the strength to extract himself from her again. He let the hunger that he’d been suppressing wash over him, and he stooped down to kiss her. For a brief, fleeting moment he thought of all the others—Fili, Kili, Marmadas, Tolman, undoubtedly more who had not made their affections so readily apparent—and there was a dim stab of satisfaction as he felt Bilba’s body sink so easily into his. Of so many others who were probably better for her and could give her so much more, he was the one she wanted above everything. He thought of the doubts he had harbored so many times, when he had wondered whether she could possibly reciprocate his feelings with even a fraction of the strength of his love for her, and felt a swell of relief at the fact that, against all odds, she did.

For the first time, he didn’t hold back. He let his hands explore her body freely, from the tiny hollow at the back of her neck to the generous swell of her hips. He drew his fingers downward along the curvature of her spine, tracing the shape of her body, and dug his fingers into the gold fabric of her dress, drawn tight over her sweet skin. He found the dress to be ironically appropriate—after all, his family had always coveted gold above all things.

Sliding her fingers down his arm, she took hold of his hand and guided him down the hall toward her bedroom. “Tonight,” she promised in that throaty voice he was growing to love, “You’re all mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there are a lot of people who have been waiting for this scene, so I hope I did it justice. If not, chances are good we'll run into this situation a couple more times before the winter is over. It is Bilba and Thorin, after all. ;)


	13. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entirely gratuitous sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves magical smut wand* MERRY CHRISTMAS!
> 
> No, but really. Skip this chapter if smut's not your cup of tea. It's the reason I've raised the rating of this fic from Teen to Explicit.

Bilba was nervous.

She did her best to conceal it, because she knew it would be off-putting to her new lover, but she couldn’t help the quiver of anticipation that set her whole body humming. As they moved into the bedroom, she cast shy glances over her shoulder at Thorin, somehow unable to reconcile the reality of the fact that she had successfully taken him for her own. He was everything she could have ever wanted in her girlish midnight fantasies, but somehow the reality of him made him worth so much more. She would never have conjured a dwarf for herself—all thick muscle and calloused skin and dark hair—but everything about him felt incredibly right, and there wasn’t an ounce of regret in her entire body.

Once they were tucked safely away in her bedroom, she urged him to be rid of the many layers of clothing he donned. Though she would have liked to help him more with the process, she wouldn’t have known where to begin. What surprised her most were the weapons he carried hidden on his person—a knife in his boot and another concealed within his bracer. There weren’t as many as Fili or Dwalin, but the fact that he was so paranoid even on a trip to Bag End was a fact that merited further investigation in the future.

When he toed off his massive boots, she cast a fascinated glance toward his feet—it seemed the dwarves were always wearing their boots, and she had begun to wonder if there wasn’t something terribly wrong with their feet that they had to hide. It was a relief to see that they were, in fact, perfectly ordinary feet, and almost hobbit-like.

For her part, she made a show of unlacing her bodice and letting the loose cloth of her dress slide free from her shoulders. It was satisfying to watch the spark of lust in his eyes as her skin was bared before him, bit by bit, until she stood before him in nothing more than hairpins and scant undergarments. She gravitated naturally toward him as she freed her curls, letting the soft, clean hair fall loose over her skin. He sat back against the headboard of her bed and she crawled between his knees, climbing up along his body with restrained eagerness.

Now that he was bared before her, she couldn’t help pausing a moment to take him in. His body was covered in more hair than most hobbits, and as she ran her fingers lightly along the dark line that tapered from his belly down to his pelvis, she found herself savoring the fact that at long last, she could finally _touch_. Her lips parted with fascination as she watched his beautifully defined muscles twitch beneath the tickling whisper of her fingertips, and when she glanced up to meet his eye, she found a ravenous hunger in his gaze that made her belly writhe and coil.

His hand then found its way to her wrist where she had planted her other hand beside his body. There, his rough fingers strayed upward along the torturously sensitive skin on the underside of her arm, making her breath quiver as it passed between her lips. When he reached her elbow, he tugged gently, urging to move closer, and she obeyed automatically as though her body were compelled by some unseen force. She climbed over his legs and seated herself on his hard belly, straddling his torso and draping herself over him like a blanket. Thorin tangled his hands in her hair and dragged her lips to his, hips writing under her as he kissed her insistently.

“You have no idea how you test me,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice husky and quiet. One of his hands moved to her thigh, his palm running over the flesh to her round hip. “What manner of creature are you, Bilba Baggins?”

She smiled, burying her face in his throat. One of her hands came to rest on his shoulder while the other reached to feel the muscles of his arm as they flexed and moved. His entire body was hard like stone, as his mind and heart seemed to have come from the stone—but she felt the bridge of his belly flex as he breathed, the barrel of his chest expanding with great lungfuls of air, and she tested the softness of the skin on his throat with her teeth and tongue. The pliability of his form and the way he gasped and twitched at her bite told her that, like herself, he was made of flesh and blood—a fact that was strangely enticing.

“I like your throat,” she murmured against his hot skin. “I think it’s probably the softest part of your body.” He growled in response to that, a throaty noise that she felt as much as heard.

“Of course,” she continued, “Your belly is ticklish, isn’t it?” To emphasize her point she rubbed her hips just above his pelvis, eliciting a strangled sound.

“Not when you touch it like that,” he warned, his grip on her rear tightening.

“But when I touch it like…?” She slid lower on his body, kissing down the sculpted muscles of his chest until her lips reached his stomach, and she ran her mouth across the distance to his belly button. His muscles flexed and writhed beneath her.

“Like that,” he gasped, his chin tipping up a little, splaying his throat ever so nicely.

Bilba smiled, running her hands over his sides. “There’s so much of you to explore,” she murmured fondly, eyeing the broad expanse of his body.

“Take your time,” he said, his voice regaining some of its usual solidarity and cool strength. “Soon enough it will be my turn.” Bilba’s gaze snapped up to meet his eye, startled by the idea, and she was met with a dark smile.

“And whatever about me should you like to explore?” she asked, reigning in the slight quiver of her voice as she slid upward over his body again.

His eyebrows lifted by a fraction, and rather than answer her, he grabbed hold of her form and rolled her off of him, switching their places with an unfair amount of ease. A startled noise escaped her lips as she found him perched over her on the bed, his broad expanse suddenly seeming to surround her—though he held his weight off of her, his strong arms planted like trunks on either side of her shoulders. From his improved vantage point he eyed her scant undergarments, and she felt as much as saw the way his gaze traced the fullness of her breasts spilling out. He splayed a hand over the front of her belly and leaned down to trace the point of her ear with the tip of his nose.

“You quiver when I do that,” he murmured, a smile audible in his voice. “Sensitive ears?”

“I’ve—I’ve never—“ she stammered to find a reply, her heart ready to beat its way out of her chest.

“Mm,” he accepted the pathetic answer and moved lower, turning his attention toward her collarbone. When his head hovered over her chest, his long hair fell loose over his shoulders and tickled her skin, and somehow she felt appreciative of the way his dark locks looked scattered across her body. As he caught the thin skin on her collarbone between his teeth, the hand on her belly strayed south, fingers slipping easily inside her undergarments, and she let out a quiet cry of shock.

The sound was enough to give him pause, and he shot her a questioning glance as the intruding hand began to withdraw. Her hand darted to grab his forearm, stopping him. “Please,” she begged. “Please continue.” He rose up, kissing along her neck and jawline, then did as he was told.

The hand slipped down between her legs again and her body instinctively arched upward toward him, burning with anticipation. As his fingers slid into the wetness there, a primal noise escaped from her throat and she reached up to grip the arm that was still planted beside her.

Then his fingers began to move, rubbing just so, and she felt something inside of her awaken. “Thorin,” she breathed, his name escaping her lips between the noises that she was helpless to stop. She was vaguely aware of his eyes on her, watching her reaction carefully, but her eyelids had fluttered closed and she struggled to focus on anything except the strange tension that was coiling up in her belly like a spring.

His hand moved faster, gradually applying more and more pressure, and she felt her approaching climax. It was a wave of heat centered in her core, simultaneously torturous and pleasurable, a clawing ache for more of him. She worshipped the fingers that moved against her, then inside of her, strong yet controlled, and her mind was filled with the sensation of the touch of his hand in that most sensitive of places. Her body writhed under him as her breath ghosted higher than her voice could follow, and then suddenly her mind exploded into a sweet numbness, and she stiffened from head to toe and dug her fingernails hard into Thorin’s arm. Her pelvis bucked and twitched into the comfortable grip of his large hand, and she had to take a steadying breath before she was able to look at him again.

“Oh,” was all she managed in a shuddering voice, her eyes wide and bright.

“You liked that,” he said with a small smile, more of an observation than a question as his hand withdrew.

“Oh,” she repeated, a drawn-out purr, resting her head back against the pillow. She took a few more breaths, silent for several languid seconds before she was able to speak. “I feel like a noodle that’s been hung out to dry.”

“Good.” She felt him give a throaty chuckle as he kissed down her chest, catching the chain of her necklace briefly, then his hand finally moved to free her breasts of their restraint. Her nipples puckered as they were struck by air, the heat of Thorin’s breath hovering just over the skin. “Very good,” he added.

She flicked the side of his head playfully, but those fingers wound themselves in his mane the moment his mouth closed over her sensitive nipple. Her torso rose up to meet the wet warmth of his tongue, a chill running across her skin as his rough hand settled on her back over her spine.

“You’re—“ she gasped, her breath heaving beneath him, “You’re very good at this.”

“You say that as though I’m not enjoying myself,” he answered, tipping his face toward her just enough that his beard tickled the sensitive flesh on the underside of her breast.

Just then something hot and stiff brushed against her thigh and she laughed nervously. “I can see that you are.” Between the calloused skin of his hand touching her in just the right places, and his mouth lavishing such delicious attention on her breasts, she felt herself growing wet for him all over again.

The uncertainty in her voice wasn’t lost on Thorin. He spared a kiss for her freckled shoulder before kissing her jawline and cheek and ear, his lips eager to explore every inch of skin. “Bilba,” he said, looking her in the eye and catching her undivided attention. “If for even a moment you should feel the slightest doubt…”

She sighed, running her hand affectionately up his arm toward his shoulder. “I know,” she told him. “I know that you would never do anything that made me uncomfortable—that I wasn’t ready for. You’ve proven that time and time again, to the extent that it can be frustrating.”

A stitch appeared in his brow, and she smiled and traced over it with her thumb before letting her fingers stray downward over his cheek. “But I love that, I really do. Stop worrying. I want this. I want you, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Go ahead and try to tell me that this doesn’t feel completely right.”

He traced the tip of his nose in a line across her cheek, and she smiled at the light sensation. “Say it,” she breathed. “Say that you feel it like I do. That this is more perfect than it has any right to be.”

“You’re more perfect than you have any right to be,” he murmured into her ear, and she laughed at how he twisted her words.

“I suppose that will have to do,” she sighed mockingly, angling her head to catch his lips for a kiss.

With a little gentle urging, he rolled onto his back for her and she slid her last bit of clothing from her hips before straddling him again.

“Are you certain you’re ready for this?” he asked gravely. “It may—“ he hesitated briefly. “Be painful.”

She had been well aware of the fact since the moment she’d seen his impressive girth. She’d been expecting it, however, seeing as the rest of him was so large. “I know,” she said reassuringly. “I’m ready. Stop worrying about me—try to enjoy yourself, would you?”

His features softened at that, and accepting it as permission to start, she took a deep breath and slowly lowered herself onto him. He flinched once beneath her, and it took a great deal of care on her part to ensure her own comfort, but after a moment she sat astride him. Arching her body, she paused to appreciate the sensation of being utterly stretched with him, of feeling so strangely connected, and knowing full-well what would happen next.

Then she began to rock her hips against his.

Thorin groaned and instinctively reached to grab her hips, his strong hold gently guiding her. She gripped the headboard of the bed to steady herself atop him, her movements quickening to an eager pace as she found just the right spot. A low purr began in her throat as her belly coiled up again, her entire body thrumming with sensation as she sank onto him over and over. It was more than she could have hoped for, a completeness that came with such physical intimacy, and for the first time in her life she felt that she was fully connected with someone on a deeper level. They settled easily into the same rhythm, his hips thrusting upward to meet her bucking hips, everything instinctive and strangely right.

She did nothing to stop the sounds that emerged from her throat—low moans that rose jagged octaves as she was struck in just the right spot—and to her great satisfaction, her growing cries were answered by deep grunts from Thorin, the way he sometimes grunted when he was hammering hot steel against an anvil. The comparison thrilled her and tightened the spring in her belly, urging her to ride harder astride his hips. He answered her quickening pace eagerly, his hips more forceful as they rocked up to meet hers.  The vigor of their bodies moving so powerfully against each other was almost enough to make her see stars, but it only awakened a richer desire in her blood.

One of the first things that had impressed Bilba about Thorin was his strength—he was raw power made flesh, a hulking creature of muscle and sinew, hot with blood that ran like molten metal through his veins at all times. She loved the rawness of him—the wildness of his thick, dark mane, the severity of his dark beard, the way his heavy brow hung over eyes that could shine bright as crystal or dark as a mineshaft. She worshipped the imperfections of his skin, how years of hardship had carved him like marble and left him rough and scarred. And though she knew he was much older than herself, she revered his ancient wisdom and experience, how the years had taught him shrewd caution and gruff manners. She even loved the rarity of his smiles, for whenever his face lit up it seemed a precious thing reserved only for her, as though somehow that small gesture of affection made her special in his eyes.

And though she might have guessed the moment she first saw him, his stony features thrown into sharp relief by the yellow glow of pipe embers and deep shadow, as he gave her this—her first time, her sexual awakening—she knew more than ever that she was in love with him.

She threw her head back as she felt her release drawing near, letting out an unrestrained cry, and gripped his arm as a sign. She bucked against him with reckless abandon now, her breath ragged and elusive, her belly coiling up so tight that her entire body was consumed by want for her climax. As it rushed over her in a great wave, she felt her insides clench and tighten around him, her mind bursting at the seams. Though she faltered in her movement, he insistently guided her a few strokes more until she felt him release inside of her, then she withdrew and collapsed against his side.

When she reached out to rest a hand on his chest, she found that his breath was as uneven as hers and his skin was slick with perspiration. Silence reigned for a long, easy moment, both of them savoring the languid pleasure of the aftermath.

“Thank you,” she finally whispered, raising herself up on one elbow to look at him. He looked completely undone, deprived of his usual dignified reserve, and to see him laid so utterly bare before her made her glow with warmth.

“Bilba Baggins,” he murmured, his eyes dark and half-lidded. “The great marvel of this Earth.”

She laughed, leaning down to lay a slow kiss on his cheek. “Thorin Oakenshield,” she returned, savoring the taste of his name on her tongue. “The dwarf who changed everything.”

The hand on his chest slid up, caressing the soft skin of his neck that she so loved. “I know it’s terribly selfish of me, but I’m glad that you got stuck in the Shire.”

Thorin smiled, reaching up to thread his fingers through her hair. “As am I—though it would be best if you did not tell the others.”

Bilba shifted to lay next to him, but stopped when Thorin moved to sit up. “There is something I would like to do, if you will permit me.”

“After that?” she grinned. “Anything.”

Despite her humor, the look in his eyes was serious as he took a section of hair from behind her ear and began to braid it. His fingers were deft and practiced, binding it with a bead from one of the braids behind his own ears, and shortly he moved onto the other side, giving her a hairstyle that nearly mimicked his own. She reached up to touch the silver beads in wonder, affection bubbling up inside.

“If—you don’t mind,” he said, sounding almost nervous.

“I think it’s lovely,” she answered. When he moved to settle back down in the small bed for the night, she followed, her body resting against his as easily as if they’d been made for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time coming, right?
> 
> Haha. Ha. Sex puns. (The last chapter, It's Cold Outside, was full of innuendos. Who can spot them all? 8D)
> 
> Anyway, I'm going out of town for a little over a week as of tomorrow, so I wanted to give you guys something to gnaw on while I'm gone. I hope it was worth the wait. ;)


	14. Obscenity Abound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's morning-after manners could use some work. He fares no better when he returns to the forge and the Company catches onto his whereabouts.

When morning came and Bilba finally managed to cast the dull fog of sleep from her head, she discovered that Thorin was wide awake. Perched on one elbow, he was leaning over her, his fingers trailing lightly across the freckles on her shoulder. As soon as her eyelids lifted lazily to look at him his hand shifted upward, his rough thumb tracing an arc over her cheek. Her eyes threatened to close again at the languid gentleness of his touch—he never failed to amaze her with the delicacy of his strong hands.

“Good morning,” he said, his deep voice still slightly ragged with sleep.

“Morning,” she replied dimly, pulling her arms up over her head and stretching. As her body arched upward the bedding slipped away from her torso, and she instinctively moved to pull it back up again for the sake of modesty. At the last moment, however, she thought of how intimately they had explored each other the night before. Her gaze drifted to Thorin’s mouth, ordinarily so severe and dignified, and with a shiver of pleasure recalled the way it had felt locked onto the tender skin of her breast; no, there was no need for modesty between the two of them now. She dropped the sheet and reached for him instead, running her hand along the corded muscles of his arm.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, finally noticing the way that his mouth turned up at the corner. It was a subtle expression, and anyone who did not know him like she did might have dismissed it as nothing. But Bilba had studied his face a thousand times over the months, as often as she had the chance, and she had grown familiar with the nuances of his expressions. For all the good it did her—she could read his feelings, but his thoughts seemed as foreign to her as ever.

“You,” he replied earnestly. “I was comparing you to the dwarf women I have known over the years.”

“You—what?” Bilba’s brow furrowed and she pulled herself up on her elbows, drawing herself closer to Thorin as though it might help her understand.

“I have never met a dwarrowdam with a quarter so many freckles as you have,” he began, his gaze drifting over her face and shoulders. “And in our society, your lack of facial hair would be severely frowned upon.”

Bilba stared at him with a dumbfounded expression, wondering if Thorin meant to insult her the morning after he bedded her.

“Your whole body is entirely too narrow,” he continued, seemingly unperturbed by her offense. “Breadth in the shoulders is considered regal, and dwarves value a thick waist—easy to hold onto.” As if to punctuate his point, his hand found its way to her back, sliding around to her side and the crest of her hipbone. “And wide hips especially,” he added, squeezing the swell of her curves with one large hand before bringing it around to grab her fleshy rear. She nearly squawked with indignity at the touch, instinctively raising her hips off the bed in an attempt to escape the hand. He seemed more entertained by her discomfort than anything else, an amused smile finding its way onto his features as he explained further. “Good hips are important—for bearing children, and also for holding up to the strain of voracious dwarven appetites.”

That was quite enough. Face flushed with humiliation and hurt, she dropped back down to the bed in utter defeat. “Thorin,” she started brokenly, unable to meet his gaze, “If I haven’t pleased you or you find me inadequate in any way—“

“Let me finish,” he interrupted patiently, leaning down near enough to bump his nose against hers. “Those are the traits I was raised to appreciate, the traits which were present in every potential companion I ever met. Things I realize now never held any allure for me. You are a strange creature, Bilba Baggins, un-dwarflike in virtually every way. But you have enthralled me, through and through. Your beauty, your wit, your—“ he paused, sucked in a breath and gave her a dark look—“Spirited lovemaking. I cannot put you from my mind, and more and more I find myself not wanting to.” He closed his eyes and pressed his face into the hair on the side of her head, breathing deep as his fingers tangled in her golden curls. “As much as such indulgence could ruin me.” That last part was murmured, barely spoken at all, and as he said it his fingers found the small, perfect braid on her temple from the night before. He ran his thumb down its length, and the sensation seemed to ease the concern that had pinched his brow.

She found herself nearly speechless at that, and whatever offense she’d felt moments before ebbed away easily. She knew she should say something in reply, something equally sweet and adoring, but there was only one thought that clung stubbornly to her mind. “So there have been others,” she said slowly, shifting to catch his eye.

He seemed to pick up on the fact that he had talked himself into an uncomfortable corner. He froze as their gazes locked, but he didn’t shy away. “Yes,” he answered.

“Many others?”

He paused, considering his reply. “Bilba, I am one-hundred and sixty—“

“I know,” she hushed, reaching up to bring a finger to his lips. “I don’t mean to judge you. I just…”

“You have the right to know,” he supplied for her.

“I think that I do, yes.”

Thorin sighed, pressing his face into the curve where her shoulder met the column of her neck. “It was by little choice of mine,” he said. “It was expected of me, given my—“ he froze abruptly, clearly trying to tiptoe around a delicate subject. “Status.”

Ah. _That_. He still had no idea that she suspected his royal lineage. She wondered what being the grandson of a king would make him—a prince? She knew little of royalty, having no experience with it herself. Briefly she wondered why he wanted to keep it a secret, then she realized what a silly thought it was. Surely the Company’s presence in the Shire would be far more complicated if it was known that a dwarf prince was among them.

“I see,” she said quietly. He drew back just a little, not meeting her eye, and she studied his face while he wrestled internally with his own dishonesty. It was a lie of omission, but a lie no less, and she hadn’t quite worked out how she felt about it. “And you were—intimate with them?”

He sighed, clearly uncomfortable, but didn’t hesitate to answer. “A few. Most hoped that I might impregnate them, and thereby feel obligated to take them in marriage. But dwarf children are rare. None were ever born from those few scattered encounters.” There was a pause as Bilba digested the information, and Thorin traced circles across the skin of her shoulder. After a moment, a faint smile appeared on his lips. “Dwarven intimacy is… complicated. Absurdly ritualistic, even. Everything is done in the hopes of conceiving a child, even outside of wedlock. There is no room for passion or affection… You have no idea how liberating it was to be free of such practices last night.”

Bilba scrunched up her nose at the thought of a sexual encounter being ritualistic. Just the idea was uncomfortable—she couldn’t imagine what Thorin had experienced at the hands of hopeful, crafty females. At the same time, it felt unfair to vilify the lot of them. “Surely there must have been someone that simply loved you,” she said in defense of Thorin’s past lovers.

He seemed to consider the sentiment for a moment before he leaned down to nuzzle a kiss just below her ear. “There was you,” he breathed, his voice low and warm like a guttering flame. “Let us not talk of this any longer—I’ll not allow you to harbor any senseless jealousy for females long absent from my life. My heart is yours, and yours alone. Do not doubt that.”

She surrendered to his request as his hand wandered up her side, its callouses rough and savory against her bare, sensitive skin. In truth, the brief conversation had brought up more questions in her mind than it had answered, and she knew that in days to come she would find her thoughts filled with musings about the women who had filled his heart long before her. But if she wanted answers, she knew that she would have to ease them out of him slowly and with great care. It didn’t appear to be a subject he was keen to discuss.

Thorin kissed down the length of her throat to the half-moon cusp where her collarbone met in the middle—then, as his mouth moved along her sternum, exploring the space between her breasts, she felt the fire between her legs kindle for him once more and her worrisome thoughts grew fuzzy. Still he continued lower, pulling the bedding down with him as his lips journeyed across the impossibly torturous expanse of her stomach. As she clutched at his dark tresses of wild hair, a dark part of her mind urged him to move lower, to tantalize her more sensitive parts with those kisses like fire—but he stopped on the slight protuberance of her womb, where her belly began to slope down between her legs. It was right on that cusp below her belly-button that he planted a lingering, worshipful kiss, then rested his forehead against her skin.

“Perhaps… we could…” she let her request trail off into silence, uncertain how to ask. In truth, she felt a stab of soreness from her southern regions in the wake of her exertion of the night before. But surely, if they were gentle…

Thorin still seemed to catch on to her desire. He shifted to look up at her, his gaze dragging over her nipples pinched with arousal, and considered it for a long, tempting moment. At long last, he breathed a sigh and hauled himself off of her. “We shouldn’t,” he said. “As much as I would love nothing more than to spend the rest of this winter in bed with you, I must return to the forge. And your parents will be home soon,” he added when she began to protest.

That was true. Depending on how early a start they got they could be home any minute. After all, she had no idea how long she and Thorin had slept, but she got the feeling it was late.

She sat up beside him in the small bed, sparing a last, longing look for the ruddy skin on his chest and the sculpted musculature of his body that was so effectively hidden by the loose clothing he wore. “The next opportunity we get,” she vowed, giving him a stern look.

“Mahal could not keep me away,” he assured her with a grin, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek one more time. He spared an appreciative glance for the braids she wore in her hair, then hauled himself off of the bed to retrieve his clothing and dress himself. Bilba watched for a minute or two, not wanting to leave the comfortable warmth of the bed, which was far greater than usual thanks to the furnace-like heat of the dwarf. As that began to ebb away, however, she dragged herself up and pulled on her nightgown, which she would only wear until she had the chance to bathe properly. She was also resolved to do the wash before her parents came home—best to eliminate all evidence of what had transpired between herself and Thorin.

As for the braids, well—it wasn’t as though anyone would be surprised if she suddenly donned a bit of dwarven flair, would they?

She was caught up in these thoughts until she noticed Thorin re-braiding his own plaits where they customarily sat by his ears, binding them temporarily with bits of cloth. She’d suspected that the braids of the dwarves was more than merely ornamental, and wondered what meaning her braids might convey to the others. But it was a fleeting thought—she hadn’t the time to concern herself with it now, it wasn’t as though it would do her any good. Nothing would convince her to remove Thorin’s braids after seeing the significance they seemed to hold for him.

“Breakfast before you go?” Bilba asked suddenly, hopeful.

“Something quick,” he answered. “I’m in for trouble as it is.”

“I saved some biscuits from last night,” she offered, leading him out of the bedroom. “A bit of jam and you can be on your way.”

“No dwarf in his right mind could refuse,” he answered with a smile. “Though I suspect the others might kill me if they find out I didn’t bring any for them.”

“Our secret,” she assured him with a wink as they moved into the pantry.

* * *

 

At the end of his long road, Thorin knew that a dragon waited for him, deep within the great halls of Erebor. As it was, however, when he found himself standing before the doors to the Old Took’s large barn, he couldn’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t prefer the dragon to whatever wrath lay for him beyond.

He’d known it was coming, of course, from the moment Bilba’s scheme had become apparent to him the night before. He’d seen it all play out, like the end of his life flashing before his eyes: the shame, the disapproval, the jeering from his fellows. He had very little desire to walk through those doors and face their criticism, but his pride would never allow him to slink away. The only way to go was forward, and the longer he stood out in the biting cold, the worse the anticipation became.

He pushed the massive doors open and stepped inside.

He’d known that the Company would be wide awake by now—it was already late morning, and typically the dwarves rose with dawn. Dimly he wondered if any of them had waited up all night for him, and a pinching guilt in his chest told him that it was highly likely; but if they had, there was no sign of atypical weariness on their faces when he entered the forge. They all looked up from their respective tasks, more than a few situated unusually close to the doors, and for a moment no one spoke, as though they were all evaluating the strange shift in the atmosphere between themselves and their leader. At long last, when no one offered a word of greeting, Thorin hauled the barn doors shut and started toward the fire to remove his soaked boots. “Forgive my absence last night,” he implored stiffly. “The storm left me stranded at Bag End for the evening.” He didn’t expect them to believe his excuse, but somehow it felt like a necessary formality.

“Ach,” Dwalin snorted in disgust, the first to speak. “Of all the—ye bedded her, didn’t ye?” Numbering among those who had posted themselves by the door, he was giving Thorin an accusatory stare with his arms folded across his chest.

Thorin offered no answer. He knew his lack of a denial would be truth enough for them. When he shot a withering glare at Dwalin, the others erupted into an excited din.

“I knew it!” Bofur proclaimed proudly, beckoning to Gloin for payment. “I knew the two of them would make like rabbits.”

Thorin was tempted to hurt him—fortunately, Dwalin did it for him. The warrior reached over and smacked him across the back of his head, knocking his hat off. No doubt, the heavy knuckle-dusters he wore smarted more than Bofur let on.

“Kulhu ma sakhizu ya izzûghizu, ma mahtadadizu ya 'agulhizu,” said Bifur, and Balin, standing next to him, looked concerned.

“The benefit of the doubt will do no good here,” Balin said. “I’m afraid he’s gotten himself into quite the spot of trouble this time.”

“Trouble?” asked Ori, looking surprised. “We should be happy for him.”

“It’s not that simple, lad,” chimed Oin, resting a hand on Ori’s shoulder.

“Five coins say she was on top,” Bofur wagered eagerly, brandishing the pouch of new winnings from Gloin.

“With Thorin?” snorted Dwalin. “Not a chance. You’re on.”

“Could be that neither was on top,” Nori contributed with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Or—if there was a chair involved…”

“I’ve heard rumors that the wives of warriors like making use of sword pommels and axe handles,” said Kili, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Do you suppose that’s true?”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” said Dori, smacking the young prince on the side of the head.

“No, no, I’ve heard the same thing!” Nori offered up insistently. “Supposed to bring luck in battle, they say.”

Fili had drawn one of his swords and was inspecting the handle with a shrewd, evaluating eye. Kili jostled closer to his brother, looking at the blade excitedly.

“You don’t think Bilba--?” he muttered, leaning down toward Fili. Together the two of them glanced toward Thorin, and upon seeing that his wrathful glare was turned in their direction, the sword was promptly sheathed and they shuffled abashedly away from the group.

“No, no, a bit more like this, I figure—on account of his size and all,” Bofur was saying to Bifur, and to Thorin’s horror he realized that the two of them were reenacting the encounter with crude hand gestures.

“That’s enough of that!” Dori cried, smacking their hands out of the air.

“But if they’re in love I don’t understand why it should be so much trouble,” Ori said to Balin insistently.

“He’s a king,” Balin answered in a gentle voice, concern on his brow. “And she’s a hobbit. That’s all there is to it.”

“When we take back Erebor and Thorin takes the throne, d’you really think Durin’s folk will accept a hobbit for a queen?” Oin added.

Thorin began to walk away from the group, simmering with anger and humiliation, when he was stopped by Kili calling out to him. “Uncle! What was it like, being with a hobbit?”

Suddenly the room was unnaturally quiet, and the attention of the dwarves was back on Thorin. His temper flared hotter with the indignity of the question, but the earnest curiosity on his nephew’s face held him in check.

“You’ve all underestimated her,” he supplied after a moment, struggling to reign himself in. It was as much of an answer as they were going to get out of him, and enough to spark another round of heated discussion. He continued toward the hearth, propping his feet up to let the fire thaw them.

“We’re happy for you, you know,” Fili said, pulling up a chair beside Thorin. He had no desire to talk with anyone, even his beloved nephews, and he knew he wore his annoyance plainly on his face.

“Kili and I, at least,” Fili corrected. “He would have told you as much himself, but you look ready to throttle the lot of us.”

“You’re right about that,” Thorin said darkly.

“You know that every dwarf here wants what’s best for you,” Fili said adamantly, leaning to catch Thorin’s eye. “As our king, and as a leader who’s proven himself time and time again, you deserve no less.” He looked over his shoulder at the other dwarves, who were growing rowdier by the minute. “The only problem is that we can’t seem to agree on what exactly that is.”

Thorin breathed a sigh, staying silent. In truth, he was still as conflicted as his company. In his heart, he knew that his happiness was inextricably tied to the heartstrings of the little hobbit lass he’d left at Bag End. But in his mind, he knew that it meant only trouble where his people were concerned. Dwarves did not mingle with hobbits, and dwarf princes doubly so.

“You feel selfish,” Fili observed, and Thorin turned a wary, guarded eye on the youth. “You feel selfish for wanting to love someone not from among your own people,” he amended.

“You are young,” Thorin murmured, staring broodily into the heart of the fire. “One day, when you are king—when you feel the constant weight of duty, you will understand.”

“No, I understand,” Fili countered firmly. “But you don’t see it the way that I do.”

Thorin looked at him, cautiously curious, his silent stare urging the young prince to continue.

“My whole life I’ve seen you do nothing but toil,” Fili recounted quietly, averting his gaze to the fire. “As long as I can remember, you’ve been at work—for the sake of our people, always protecting them, ensuring their well-being, setting an example. And they are grateful to you for that. I can’t think of a single dwarf who does not speak the name of Thorin Oakenshield with reverence and respect—even those who know you best, who know your weaknesses as well as your strengths.” Neither of them spoke her name, but they both knew Fili was referring to his mother, Dis, who had always been more critical of her brother than most.

“In the past, your heart always lay with your people,” Fili continued. “But I think now it has found a new home, here in the Shire, with a certain hobbit.” When Thorin slumped, Fili added, “And there’s no shame in that. The old laws about preserving the purity of our race are not only antiquated, they’re impractical.”

“Fili—“

Thorin gave him a sharp, warning look, but Fili pressed on. “We’ve been displaced from Erebor for a whole generation, now—we cannot be expected to keep to ourselves forever. Our numbers are dwindling, Thorin. That fact alone means it should come as no surprise that you never found a mate among our people.”

“That fact alone is why I _should_ find a mate among our people,” Thorin argued, folding his arms stiffly.

“To repopulate?” Fili had the gall to laugh, and Thorin shot him a glare. “Something tells me that you had no intention of doing any such thing. You’ve been grooming me for the throne for a long time, uncle. You can’t possibly expect me to believe that you had any plans of producing your own heir.”

Thorin’s features softened, admitting quiet defeat. “It did not seem a priority when there was no throne to pass down.”

“Therein lies my point,” Fili said pointedly. “Bilba may not be a dwarf, but I’d rather see you happy with her than miserable with no one. And I think, with time, our people could learn to agree.”

Thorin was quiet for a long moment, considering his nephew’s words. In a way, he did make a weak point. It soothed his guilt over his affair with Bilba, but he knew most of their people would not be so easily swayed.

“Yours is a good heart, Fili,” he said at length, resting one hand on his nephew’s knee. Fili smiled, clearly convinced that he’d won. “But you know little of politics.” As Thorin had predicted, Fili’s face fell perceptibly. “Bilba has won the hearts and minds of this Company by caring for us in our hour of need, and by showing us friendship where none might be found. But there are those who would happily flay her flesh from her bones if they knew what had transpired between the two of us. She’ll have a much greater task at hand if she intends to win over Durin’s folk.” At that, he gave a wistful smile—here he was speaking as though there were some hope of a future between himself and the hobbit, when he knew what impossible odds prevented that from being the case.

“Perhaps you’re the one who’s underestimated her,” Fili said quietly, giving Thorin a hard look before standing to walk away.

Thorin slumped in his seat and focused on the fire in the hearth, trying to drown out the impossible noise of the Company. Bofur was commanding the brunt of their attention now, trying to extrapolate Bilba’s sexual prowess from Thorin’s reactions and place her somewhere along a graded scale, with commentary that the others seemed to find highly amusing. At long last, Thorin could take no more. His simmering temper erupting into boiling anger, he stood and bellowed a curse at them in Khuzdul. His chair went tumbling as he moved to tug on his damp boots, eager to be anywhere else. The Company was quiet as he stalked out of the barn, hoping a walk around Hobbiton in the deep snow would soothe his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Kulhu ma sakhizu ya izzûghizu, ma mahtadadizu ya 'agulhizu." -- "What you don't see with your eyes, don't invent with your mouth."
> 
> I'm back! And I've got lots of great ideas and inspiration, so I imagine you'll be seeing a lot of updates in January.
> 
> I wasn't quite satisfied with this chapter when I first wrote it, because I worried that it might reflect poorly on Thorin and the Company. But with a bit of revision and tweaking, I'm a bit happier with it now, and I've come to terms with the fact that sometimes Thorin's just plain tactless. Not a lot of plot here, but it had to happen.
> 
> You're going to start hearing a lot more individual reactions from the Company regarding Thorin and Bilba-- I started here in this chapter with Fili.
> 
> Also, I'm looking forward to more conversations in the future about dwarven sex rituals. Completely ridiculous, devious, and fun.


	15. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilba has a serious talk with her father. Later the dwarves embarrass the living daylights out of her and she looks to Oin for answers to some uncomfortable questions.

Everything felt different.

After Thorin left, Bilba took her morning bath. She took extra care to scrub herself clean, paranoid that even the slightest trace might betray her to her parents. But somehow soap and water weren’t quite enough, and by the time her bath began to grow cold, she came to realize that she was going to have to live with the burden of this new secret. If the evidence wasn’t there on her body, it remained as a mark on her soul.

But she couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty.

She didn’t savor the thought of lying to her parents, of course. But as she scrubbed clean the bedding, knowing that at any moment Bungo and Belladonna could walk through the front door, she felt nothing but peace. Over and over her mind kept bringing itself back to Thorin Oakenshield—to the fact that at long last she had someone who was all her own, and if she was given the entire world to choose from, there was no one she’d prefer. She didn’t dare think of him as perfect, because she knew better than that. He was crotchety, old-fashioned, stubborn like a mule, and overly cautious. But somehow, when all of the things that were wrong with him came together into a single person, they seemed so terribly right. And oh, she loved him more than ever.

Her heart was bursting with the thought when she heard the front door of the smial open. Frantically, she retraced her steps, trying to remember if there was any trace of Thorin that may have been left behind. But her mind came up blank, so she forced herself to relax and put on a welcoming smile for her parents.

“Morning, wee lamb,” Belladonna greeted, pausing in the door to the wash room as she began shedding layers of snow-soaked clothing. Her skin was ruddy and flushed from the cold, but she seemed cheery all the same. “Quite the storm we had last night!”

“Oh yes,” Bilba agreed, keeping her eyes turned down toward her work.

“I’ll bet you were tucked up nice and cozy in Bag End, though.” Belladonna cast a warm glance around at the familiar home.

“Certainly,” Bilba assured her. “I had a bit of hot cider—I hope you don’t mind. The thought of it was just too much to bear watching the storm.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” her mother waved a dismissive hand. “It’s meant to be enjoyed.”

“Morning, my girl!” called Bungo, joining Belladonna in the doorway. “I trust you weren’t too lonely without us?”

Bilba struggled to keep her face straight. “I got by.”

“Of course, of course.” Bungo ushered his wife down the hall, undoubtedly so they could change out of their damp clothes. As they went, Bilba heard her father whistle a merry tune, completely oblivious to what had transpired the night before.

“Get used to it,” she murmured to herself as she began hanging the sheets to dry. This wasn’t going to be the last time she concealed a tryst with Thorin from her parents, if she had anything to do with it.

It was business as usual in Bag End for the rest of the morning. Only when the noon sun stood at its peak in the clear sky did she have her first real scare.

“Er, Bilba, could I speak to you a minute?” Bilba was sitting in the parlor working on a small bit of floral embroidery, and it took every ounce of control in her body not to jab her needle straight through her fingertip.

“Of course, Papa.” She laid down her embroidery hoop then sat on her hands, hoping it would conceal the way they trembled. “What about?”

“Your dwarf friends.” Bungo sighed gravely as he sat down in his favorite chair and lit his pipe.

“Oh.” She knew it wasn’t much of a reply, but she was so nervous that somehow she couldn’t seem to think properly. Avoiding her father’s gaze, she focused her attention on the fire in the hearth.

“Bilba,” Bungo began, “I realize that I haven’t been entirely… supportive regarding your friends. I didn’t trust them for a long time, and to be quite honest, I still don’t. Not completely, and I doubt that I ever will. But…” he paused to take a deep, steadying breath. “They’ve been good to you. As well they should, considering the amount of food that’s come out of our pantry to feed them.” Bilba shied away from the sharp look he gave her, but his expression softened quickly. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean that. I know that they’ve repaid your kindness, and then some. As a matter of fact, they’ve set up quite the respectable business with that forge of theirs—but that’s beside the point.

“What I’m trying to say is that… I don’t mean to cause you grief, my dear. You know that your mother and I both love you, but we have different ways of showing it. Your mother has always had a bit of an adventurous spirit, and bless your heart, you take after her in that way. She believes in learning from experience—in falling down so as to learn to get back up again. My philosophy has always been a bit… different. _I_ say, why put you through the pain of falling when I can spare you the trouble by teaching you from my own experience?”

Bungo paused and fidgeted with his pipe for a moment. “I’ve thrown more than my fair share of fits regarding those dwarves, and I realize now that it wasn’t entirely fair to you and your friends. I never meant to punish you _or_ them. I only meant to protect you.” His gaze flickered up, and Bilba felt her heart melt at the familiar warmth in her father’s eyes. She’d never seen him look so apologetic in her life, and the sight made her heart ache. “Because I love you.”

Clearing his throat, he jabbed his pipe between his lips and breathed a puff of smoke. “That’s what I’m getting at, you see. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, and I certainly don’t want to get in the way of anything that, in the end, might actually be very—well, good for you. Y’see, your mother and I did a bit of talking while we were away, and she was right about more than a few things. For all that I believe outsiders mean trouble, and I still don’t think it’s healthy for a young hobbit lass to be spending so much time with dwarves… I’ve never seen you so happy as you have been since they came to the Shire. There’s a light in your eyes these days like I’ve never seen before, and if it’s dwarves that have made you shine, well, then—I suppose, perhaps, they aren’t so bad.”

Bilba stared at her father, her mouth agape. The heartfelt honesty in his words had rendered her speechless—but more than that, she was shocked to realize that at long last, her father had come to accept her friends. There was a sudden stabbing thought that if he knew what had transpired the night before, he might not be so quick to extend his good opinion—but Bilba pushed it stubbornly from her mind.

“You’re my only child, Bilba, and all that’s precious to me in this world,” Bungo said quietly, resting his pipe on his knee. “And I thought you should know that I only want what’s best for you in the end.”

“Oh, Papa!” she couldn’t restrain herself any longer. Lunging forward out of her chair, she seated herself in her father’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Papa, of course I know that!” Leaning back, she gave him a kiss on the cheek and rested a hand against his chest. It was strange to think that, for so many years, she had considered him to be larger than life. He’d always been the strongest person she knew, a steadfast and immovable pillar. Now that she’d grown to love another male, she realized that, by comparison to Thorin’s godly stature, her father was weak and frail. Yet as she felt his heart beat beneath her palm, she remembered that strength she had adored as a child, and she found that it was no less than Thorin’s—only different.

“I love you,” she murmured, burying her face against his shoulder. “And I know that you love me. I never doubted that.”

She felt her father’s hands wrap around her waist. “Good, good,” he said weakly. “I just—needed to make sure that you knew.”

She withdrew and kissed him again. “Now that that’s settled, would you mind? If I went to see them now?”

Bungo chuckled and breathed a weary sigh. “Very well. Even if I said no, I doubt I could keep you away.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

 

The moment Bilba set foot into the old barn, she realized that home wasn’t the only place the atmosphere had changed. The dwarves fell strangely silent the moment they saw her, and not one of them said a word as she removed her cloak and made her way toward the hearth. She could see tension in their eyes—meaningful glances exchanged, barely-concealed stares in the direction of her new braids. When at last the silence was broken, it was by the ever-tactful Bofur.

“So, tell me—were you on top or bottom?” Chin perched in hand, he asked the question as casually as if it were a remark about the weather. Bilba froze in mortification and looked at him, feeling her face and ears turn beet red in the face of his candid curiosity.

It was enough to incite chaos among the rest of the Company. Dwalin, Fili, and Dori lunged to hit Bofur as one, while Balin stood shaking his head with a hand over his eyes. Kili was holding up his sheathed sword and seemed to be comparing her with the hilt while Nori whispered in his ear, which confused her entirely— and Bifur was muttering something to Oin in the dwarven language. Thorin, sitting quietly beside the fire, was looking from one dwarf to the next as though trying to figure out what to do.

“You told them?” she shrieked at him when she finally recovered her voice.

“Please,” Balin drawled. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“We guessed,” Kili affirmed, giving a calm nod as if he’d known for years.

“You may as well proclaim it to the world with those braids in your hair,” Nori added.

“Oh,” Bilba managed weakly. She’d realized that the braids might have significant implications, but she’d had no idea that the Company would catch on so quickly. Had the two of them really been so unsubtle?

“Here now, there’s no reason to be shy about it!” Bofur exclaimed sunnily. “I saw it coming from the moment you fell out of that tree. If I hadn’t, I mighta made a play for you m’self.”

That was enough to elicit an unsubtle kick in the shin from Thorin, whose livid glare could have shriveled stone. “Well, I didn’t!” Bofur defended helplessly, shrinking back.

Suddenly feeling just a touch faint, Bilba inched toward a chair and eased herself down. “Did the rest of you know, too?” she asked, the blush still burning in her face.

“Mostly,” Dwalin answered with a nonchalant shrug.

“We had our suspicions,” Oin added, looking around to gather nods of assent from the Company.

“Bofur took bets,” Gloin noted with a sly glance toward the dwarf in the hat.

“ _Bets_?” She felt her voice rise an octave.

“ _Small_ ones,” Bofur reassured, holding out his hands to soothe her. “Completely harmless. Speaking of which—there’s still one we’ve yet to settle.” He adjusted his position, straddling the back of a chair, and leaned forward to give her a serious look. “Now, this is very important, m’ girl. Were you on top or bottom?”

“Bofur!” Thorin barked, bolting upright in his chair.

Bilba ran a hand through her hair wearily. She was having trouble thinking straight, and it didn’t cross her mind to withhold an answer. “Top,” she murmured after a moment, sparking another uproar.

“You’ve got to be joking!” Dwalin spat as Bofur beckoned toward him with a greedy hand.

“It’s all in the hips,” Nori contributed as he collected his own winnings from Gloin. “The way she dances—it was obvious.”

“Did you—did you use anything?” Kili asked, gripping the handle of his blade tightly. “You know, any—objects?”

“Kili,” Thorin growled in warning.

“I—I don’t—I’m not sure that I understand,” Bilba stammered, just a little frightened of the strangely intense look on Kili’s face.

“Obviously not,” Dwalin said gruffly, and this time he was the one holding out a hand to collect money from Kili. “As if Thorin would need toys to do his work.”

“Oh!” Bilba clapped a hand over her mouth as realization dawned on her, her eyes going wide. In the corner, Thorin looked ready to burst a blood vessel.

“What sort of positions did you try?” Bofur asked eagerly, leaning forward in his seat. “There are so many int’resting ways to have a lady on top. Were you facing forwards or backwards? Where did you put your feet? And was there a wall involved?” As if he meant to demonstrate, he rocked his pelvis against the back of the chair.

Bilba stared at him with her mouth hanging open at a complete loss. As the Company began to settle down, a few of the dwarves looked at her with concern.

“Is she broken?” Kili asked seriously, canting his head to the side.

“Nn,” Bilba whimpered, her mind stuck on the startling images cycling through her imagination.

“The fact that she isn’t after a night in bed with a dwarf is more than I would’ve expected from a hobbit lass,” Dwalin contributed.

“She’s sturdier than she looks,” Fili said firmly. “Even in the face of a meatgrinder like yourself.”

“Why you little—“ Dwalin reached out and smacked Fili alongside the head.

Bifur said something in his strange language, and though she couldn’t comprehend the words, the accompanying gestures were more than clear enough.

“I’ve heard that hobbits are quite flexible,” Nori answered. “I imagine it was quite the stretch, but then—these Shirefolk will surprise you.”

At last, Thorin stood and hollered something at them in Khuzdul, his hands balled tightly into fists. “Filthy dogs, the lot of you!” he spat. “Have you no sense of decency? Bilba Baggins is your friend, and she deserves nothing less than your utmost respect.”

That seemed to muster a bit of humility in them. They fell quiet as Thorin moved toward Bilba and knelt in front of her chair.

“I apologize for this senseless indignity,” he said quietly, taking her hand to kiss her palm. As he clasped her hand between his, she noticed that he was shaking—and she realized for the first time that he felt some sort of protective possessiveness over her. The knowledge that anyone should feel that way about her—let alone Thorin Oakenshield—left a warm coil in her belly.

“No, Thorin, it’s alright,” Bilba soothed, fondly tucking his hair behind his ear. Her fingertips fell naturally onto his braid and she traced its length with her fingertip. “I think I’d prefer that they know. I’d rather suffer a little indignity than try to keep it from them.”

“There, y’see?” Bofur chimed cheerily. “A little indignity’s good for the spirit. Builds character, as my father would say.”

Thorin’s head fell forward just a little and Bilba cradled it in her hands. “Mahal give me strength,” he muttered.

Despite herself, it was Thorin’s exasperation that finally made her laugh. It was just a huff of air at first, but then it grew into a quiet chuckle. “They’re absolute fools, the lot of them,” she told Thorin, casting a fond glance up at the Company. “But I love them all the same. Just as I love you.” The lightness of her mood seemed to ease him somewhat, and she saw the tension leave his broad shoulders.

Perhaps it was a risk since she didn’t know the rules of public affection among dwarves, but she felt it was a risk worth taking. Leaning down, she gave Thorin a lingering, affectionate kiss on the lips, and somehow it was liberating just to know she didn’t have to hide it any longer. He was hesitant to reciprocate at first, as though he was shy about showing this side of himself to his dwarves, but after a moment he leaned into the familiarity of her kiss.

When she drew back and looked around, a few of the dwarves were even smiling—Ori, Bifur, Bombur, Fili, Kili, though his was just a touch strained—and Bofur breathed a dreamy little sigh. “I do love me a happy ending,” he said.

“I’m afraid,” Balin said quietly from the back of the group, “This is only the beginning.”

Perhaps there was more to his words than Bilba knew, but all the same, she feared he was right. For all that the dwarves were allowed to know of their affair, she was set on keeping it a secret from the hobbits of the Shire. If any one of them found out about herself and Thorin, she knew that her entire reputation—as well as her family’s—would go up in smoke.

On top of that, they had this strange magical winter to survive, and if they did, there was still the matter of the dwarves’ quest. However she tried, she couldn’t escape the reality that one day the Company was going to leave her—and she was sure that day would kill her.

* * *

 

Bilba puttered around the forge for the better part of the day. Thorin reviewed some lessons with the blade with her before setting to work at an anvil, putting hammer to steel on what looked like another sword. While he was preoccupied, Bilba seized the opportunity to speak with Oin, as she’d been meaning to since she arrived. There was something very important weighing heavily on her mind and though it took a great deal of courage to bring up the subject, she couldn’t let it pass her by.

“Oin, may I speak to you a moment?” she asked quietly, leaning close to his seat. “Privately?”

“Mm?” The old apothecary glanced up at her from the assorted herbs he was organizing. “Of course, of course.”

He led her to a far corner away from prying ears. The obvious secrecy of the conversation earned a bit of interest from the others—Bofur and Dwalin both glanced up curiously, while Balin’s wary gaze followed them all the way across the room—but none made any attempt to follow.

“I wanted to know—“ she began hesitantly. She tried to broach the subject in a detached, straightforward manner, the same way that her father often did when conducting his business affairs, but it felt strange when the subject at hand was so incredibly personal.

“You’re going to ask about the chances of pregnancy,” he supplied for her, not batting a lash.

“Er, yes.” She looked up at him in surprise, startled that she was so easily read.

“I guessed as much,” he huffed with a sigh. There was a discouraging gravity to his tone and bearing that put Bilba on edge, but she knew she had to forge on ahead.

“I have to know, Oin, please. Is there any chance that I could conceive Thorin’s child?” Bilba wrung her hands and cast an anxious glance in Thorin’s direction.

“That,” Oin started gravely, “Is a very complicated issue. Historically, I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of a half-breed between a dwarf and any other race. And more than likely it’s for good reason. On top of dwarrows being fairly unfertile among themselves, dwarves and hobbits—for all that we may have the same parts, we’re different. We lead very different lives, and we’re built for different things. I hate to tell you this, m’ dear, but there’s not much chance you’ll ever bear him a child. In fact, I’d say it’s just shy of impossible.”

Bilba’s shoulders fell a little at that, but she couldn’t decide if it was out of relief or disappointment. She knew she wasn’t ready for a child anytime in the near future, but was it so wrong to hope that someday she might be able to start a family with Thorin? It was premature thinking at so early a stage in their relationship, but to know the opportunity would never be open to her settled like a heavy lodestone in her gut.

“Probably for the best that you don’t, anyhow,” he added.

“What do you mean?” Her gaze snapped back up to him, intensely curious.

“As I said, we’re very different folk. I doubt your little hobbit body would know what to do with the seed of a dwarf. Even if you did manage to conceive, the pregnancy would be dangerous at best, and _if_ —by some miracle—you did manage to carry a child to full term, which is _four years_ among dwarves, it is likely that the child would have…” he sucked in a sharp breath, “Severe health problems. Presumably for its entire life.”

Bilba’s eyelids fluttered closed and she wrapped her arms around her belly, hoping it might somehow bring her comfort. It didn’t. “I see.”

“There would be… cultural complications as well,” Oin added hesitantly. “But I think that’s something you ought to discuss with Thorin himself. It’s not my place to get involved.”

At that she opened her eyes and looked up at Oin, but his stony face revealed nothing to her. It was easy enough to assume that those cultural complications were somehow related to Thorin’s bloodline—but perhaps there was more to it than that as well.

A thought struck her with the force of a lightning bolt, and she suddenly reached out to grip Oin’s hand tightly. “Oh, Oin—he’s not married, is he? Please tell me that there isn’t someone waiting for him back in Ered Luin.” Frantically she retraced their conversation from that morning. Judging by the way he spoke, it didn’t seem as though Thorin was married, or ever had been married—but she’d heard of sordid extra-marital affairs before, which sometimes took place thanks to the ignorance of the other woman.

“No, lass,” Oin chuckled, patting her hand and putting her sudden fears to rest. “Thorin Oakenshield has never taken a wife. And you needn’t worry about any sort of unfaithfulness on his part—such things are all but unheard of among dwarrows.” He paused, and Bilba got the impression that he was weighing his next words carefully. “The love of a dwarf is one of the most lasting and powerful things on the face of this good Earth. You’d do well to remember that.”

It hit her like an arrow to the heart. Her breath caught as the words echoed in her head, and she tried very hard to weigh the implications of that statement. Oin seemed to take her silence as a dismissal and moved back to the company of the others. Turning to face the hearth, Bilba studied Thorin for a long moment, letting the gravity of what had transpired between them sink in.

 _One of the most lasting and powerful things on the face of this good Earth_. She was fairly certain that no such thing had ever been said of hobbit love, but then—surely no less could be said of the love between her parents? She thought of Bungo and Belladonna, the happiness that shone in their eyes whenever they sat close together in front of the hearth—she thought of how they would dance in the kitchen when they didn’t think she was watching, or how sometimes her father would leave love notes around the smial for her mother to find.

If dwarf love was anything like that sort of love, then perhaps it was nothing to fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I worry that I'm updating this fic way too often, and maybe I should set up a schedule or something. Then I remember that I do plan on finishing it someday, and continuing it with a sequel covering the actual quest, and suddenly I'm okay with posting new chapters every other day because each one is a step closer to the endgame.
> 
> Anywho. We needed to spend a bit more time with Bungo. Good hobbit, that Bungo. He was itching to throw a little more fuel on the fire of Bilba's guilt. And the dwarves' reaction to Bilba and Thorin in the last chapter was so well received, I decided to put a bit more along those same lines in this chapter-- but with the added fun of Bilba's innocent mind! (For the record, I've established a headcanon that since the dwarves place so much importance on the bearing of children and the furthering of bloodlines, they've got their own version of the Kama Sutra-- an extensive list of sex positions said to increase fertility. Thorin alluded to it a little bit in the last chapter, and obviously, Bofur's had his nose in a copy at some point too.)
> 
> Also, a few people have been wondering about the possibility of Thorin impregnating Bilba, so I thought that I'd finally address those concerns here since it's now on Bilba's mind. I tried to approach it from a very realistic perspective, but don't let Oin's pessimism get you down just yet. Endgame, remember. ;)


	16. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, it's a time skip.

The months of the long winter dragged through what ought to have been a beautiful spring and a blissful summer. The season was not kind to the Shire nor its people; food stores began to run uncomfortably low and tensions ran equally high. Bilba, who loved the summer above all things, felt the weighty winter depression as keenly as anyone. But the thought of the dwarves always managed to console her—without the winter she would not have their friendship, and above all, she would not have Thorin. By comparison, a few extra months of cold seemed a small price to pay.

They continued their affair in careful secrecy, occasionally with the strategic aid of the Company. Bilba had never been quite so grateful for her abundance of relatives, for many of them turned to Bungo and Belladonna for help when hunger and sickness began to set in. Her parents’ visits to relatives became more frequent, and similarly, so did Thorin’s overnight visits to Bag End.

Those were the nights that Bilba loved best, and the memories that kept her warm as the icy winter storms pummeled the land ruthlessly. The two explored each other with increasing boldness, and with familiarity came a certain adeptness in the lovers’ arts. Though she was eager to pursue her newfound sexual awareness, there were also nights that were spent only talking, or in blissful silent embraces; occasionally Thorin would bring his harp to play for her, knowing how she loved the sound, and she would return the favor by singing or dancing for him. Her favorite melodies she would try to teach him—they would sit together before his harp, translating the songs by ear to its strings. Though the memory of those tunes in her mother’s voice would remain forever ingrained in her memory, there was something poignant and sweet about hearing them plucked on the harp by the dexterous fingers of Thorin Oakenshield. It kindled a gentle flame in her heart, a glowing sort of warmth to help ward off the winter’s cold.

But even the sweet sound of music could not hold off the dark days ahead. As the Fell Winter dragged on and hardship loomed endlessly in the future, hope began to grow scarce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you know that part at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark when a Nazi's face melts off? That's kind of how I felt writing this. I really needed to do a time skip because the plot of this fic was moving forward faster than the timeline I'd planned out, but I swear that there's no good way to suddenly jump ahead several months. (At least----- not without a vaguely ominous segue to tie it all together?)
> 
> Cheesus crust.
> 
> I was gonna put it at the beginning of the next chapter but it really was the most awkward of awkward transitions. So. You get it a la carte. The good news is, that means tonight you get a double update. (With a side of food references.)


	17. Misunderstandings and Firewood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilba and Kili have a long overdue conversation.

“Lamb, be a dear and bring me the cinnamon, would you?” called Belladonna from the kitchen. Bilba patiently set aside her book in the parlor and did as she was told.

“Thank you, m’darlin’,” her mother sung as she accepted the jar. She stopped Bilba just as she was about to return to her book. “Wait—Bilba.”

“Yes, Mama?” Bilba turned and leaned against the doorframe expectantly.

“Those braids in your hair, and those beads—when did you start wearing it like that?” Belladonna’s movements at the stove slowed by a fraction as she gave her daughter an evaluating look.

Fortunately, by now Bilba had become very good at sidestepping the subject of herself and Thorin. The memory of their first night together came rushing back to her, and where it might have once conjured a fierce blush, she revealed only a fond smile. “Some time ago, Mama. Surely you must have noticed before now.”

“Oh, of course I have—I was just thinking that I couldn’t remember how long it’d been like that. Why, you’ve taken to wearing those beads every day, even when you pin your curls up.” Belladonna’s expression was difficult to read—if there was concern on her features, it was concealed carefully under a mask of indifference.

“Don’t you like it?” Bilba absently reached up and traced one of the braids near her ears. Though Thorin was much better at braiding than she was and she would always prefer when he did it himself, she’d had a great deal of practice over the months and had grown proficient at braiding in her own right.

“Oh, I think it’s lovely,” her mother reassured absently. “But, eh—I take it that your dwarf friends got you started doing that? A bit like Kili’s, isn’t it?”

“Fili’s, Mama,” Bilba corrected with a gentle smile. “And yes, I suppose it is a bit like his. No moustache, I’m afraid.”

“Thank goodness for that.” Belladonna tossed a wry grin over her shoulder. “Fili, Kili—Oin, Gloin, I’ll never be able to tell that lot apart. What wretched names.”

“Your sisters are named Donnamira and Mirabella,” Bilba reminded. In truth, she too had struggled with their names the first week or so that they’d been in the Shire. Now they were as familiar to her as the back of her hand.

“Yes, well,” Belladonna sniffed. “At least they’re more than two syllables.”

Just as Bilba started to turn toward the parlor for the second time, the bell at the front of the smial rang and she immediately perked up.

“Were you expecting them here today?” her mother asked. Bilba’s reaction has obviously tipped her off, and she was already wiping her hands on her apron to answer the door.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mother,” Bilba insisted, holding out a hand to stop her from going farther. “I told them I’d come along to gather firewood—that’s all.” Firewood had been in considerable demand as of late, and though many townsfolk still emptied their purses at the demand of local tradesmen, the dwarves were too stubborn. They had taken to gathering firewood regularly—not only for themselves, but also for Bag End.

“Oh.” Belladonna’s face fell a little. “Just be careful—those woods can be dangerous. And for goodness’ sake, don’t let your father know.”

“Consider it done,” Bilba chimed merrily as the ducked into the hall to answer the door.

* * *

 

As was customary, rather than the entire Company trying to crowd her doorstep (which had previously ended in disaster) they sent one dwarf to retrieve Bilba while the rest started out to the forest. This time it was Kili. As they departed from Bag End and made their way out of Hobbiton, Bilba recounted her conversation with her mother, laughing at the confusion over Fili and Thorin’s braids. Though he shared in her mirth, she noticed that same strained smile that occasionally cropped up, and she decided that now was as good a time as ever to confront him about it.

“Kili.” Bilba reached out to grab his arm as they clambered through the snow, looking up at him with imploring eyes. He turned to stare down at her, his face strangely unreadable.

Of all the dwarves, she had come to realize that Kili was one of the most unpredictable. Though at first she’d been taken in by his show of open smiles and friendly banter, over the course of the months she’d discovered that there was a deeper, much more complex side to him—a restless, introspective side that he did his best to conceal for the sake of Thorin and Fili. It was difficult to put the different pieces of him together into a complete image when he kept so many of his thoughts and feelings internalized. The best she could do was guess from his expressions, which sometimes revealed more than he intended.

“You’ve been holding something back for months now,” she said quietly, her words carried on a huff of steam in the brisk air. “Please. Talk to me.”

He studied her features for a long moment, and from the look on his face she could see that she had struck a nerve. But to her surprise, he turned and started through the snow again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His tone was light and it was a convincing bluff, but Bilba knew better.

“It’s about Thorin and I, isn’t it?”

That stopped him in his tracks. He stood facing away from her as a cold wind passed between them, and a wisp of steam ghosted into the air as evidence of a sigh before he finally turned around. For the first time in what felt like forever, his careless mask was gone. Instead, his face flickered through a range of emotions—nervousness, fear, pain, frustration. Neither of them spoke for a moment, as though neither knew what to say. Then, to her relief, he broke the silence.

“I hoped it would be me,” he told her with a shrug, as though it ought to explain everything.

“What?” The reply escaped from her lips before she had the chance to think.

“I just...” His hands rose and fell helplessly against his sides. “I hoped that you would pick me.” There was an easy sort of frankness to his tone that was simultaneously endearing and heartbreaking—he spoke matter-of-factly, as though there were nothing else to it.

“Kili,” Bilba swallowed hard, uncertain what to say. In the silence that hung uneasily between them, she reflected back on the time since the dwarves’ arrival, and more specifically, Kili’s behavior toward her. What she found left a guilty lump lodged in the back of her throat.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fall in love,” he said, moving back through the snow toward her again. His tone was still light and sincere, but she could see a yearning in his eyes that escaped through his fractured façade. “I never thought I had much of a chance back in Ered Luin—the girls are much more interested in Fili, seeing as he’s next in line for—“ Kili stopped abruptly and licked his lips. “That is, he’s the oldest, so he’s got an inheritance. And he’s much better looking, by dwarrow standards. The ladies back home don’t care much for a dwarf with no beard.” He smiled mirthlessly at that, running a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Then we came to the Shire, and when you asked me to dance, I thought… perhaps…”

“Kili,” Bilba muttered again, gravitating forward to embrace him. She wrapped his bulky frame in a warm hug, hardly knowing what else to do. She was disappointed in herself for never having noticed before, and for allowing him to suffer in silence for so long. She, too, had felt the bitter pangs of unrequited love in years long past, and she knew the sort of ache it could instill in the heart.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, burying her face in his comforting warmth. “I never meant to hurt you. I wish you’d said something.” Pressed close to his chest, she heard his breath quaver just a little. He swallowed audibly as his arms wound hesitantly around her waist.

Drawing back, she looked him in the eye—and that was when he kissed her.

By the time she saw it coming, it was too late. He leaned down and caught her lips with his, an experimental touch that was joltingly unfamiliar. She was struck by the taste of pipe smoke on his breath, like Thorin’s—but just a little different, as though he preferred some other sort of weed. His lips were soft, larger than those she’d grown accustomed to kissing, and the lack of a beard tickling her skin was unusual. She froze in his arms as she tried to figure out what to do, then as her mind began working again she suddenly recoiled and pulled herself out of his embrace.

“N-no,” she gasped, her fingertips flying to her lips. “No, Kili, you—you’ve misunderstood completely.”

The wisps of steam from his breath came slow but heavy. They stood staring at each other for a moment that hung frozen in the silence, heavily laden with shock and panic. There was a hint of restrained dismay on his face, and the knowledge of what he must have be feeling inside was heartbreaking to her. But at the same time, it all felt wrong—so terribly wrong, like she had betrayed Thorin just now, even though she knew that her heart hadn’t wavered for a moment.

“I—I didn’t mean that I have feelings for you,” she stammered, reaching for some solution that might repair this sudden damage. “That is, I do! I love you, Kili, but… not like that. I belong to Thorin. Not because I chose him, or even because he chose me—just because, I think that sometimes, these things happen and there’s nothing that you or I can do to control it.” She held her breath, willing him to believe her—to understand and to forgive, because she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him as a friend.

Kili nodded, looking down. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to make any unwanted advances.”

“Kili,” Bilba sighed, stepping closer to him to rest a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re a dear lad, and I’m so terribly fond of you—I need you to know that. I’m more than happy to give you my love, just not in that way. Isn’t that enough?”

There was fretful silence that seemed to stretch on forever as he weighed the question carefully in his mind, and she almost worried that he might not accept it. But then he looked up at her, his brown eyes warm and fond, and the relief that washed over her was palpable.

“If that’s all that you can give, it will have to be,” he said with a resolute nod and a sigh. “And it’d be selfish of me to hope for more.” She could see that he was still struggling internally, and it would likely take him some time to come to terms with her decision at last. But at least it would give him some closure. It had been an uncomfortable exchange between them, but she hoped that now he would be able to move on.

“I surely couldn’t do anything to destroy Thorin’s happiness,” he added, his expression growing thoughtful as his mind turned to his uncle. The two of them were close—Bilba had become very aware of that. Though they did not have long, insightful conversations the way she did with Thorin, she could see the connection between them in the way that they interacted. It was something that went far beyond mere words. “I’ve never seen him like this, you know. My whole life he’s never smiled so much as he has since coming to the Shire.”

That thought seemed to perk him up a bit, and he wound his arms around her shoulders in a friendly gesture as they started through the woods again. “The whole Company, really. I can’t feel too sorry for myself over losing you when you were never mine to begin with—and it’s a small price to pay for all the good you’ve done us. This is a cursed winter, without a doubt. But I can’t imagine what it would have been like had we passed right through the Shire and never gotten to know you.” His tone grew warmer as he spoke, and with it, the shadow hanging between them seemed to dissolve into thin air.

“I feel the same way,” Bilba mused with a smile, relieved to have the old Kili back. “You’ve changed my life—all of you. It’s going to be awfully dull in the Shire when you go.” She bit her tongue right after she said it—as a general rule, she never talked about the Company leaving for her own sake.

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” he agreed lightheartedly, with an air of self-assurance. “I can’t imagine who you’ll dance with at all the parties.”

Bilba laughed and shoved him in the side, to which he responded with a push of his own that almost sent her tumbling into a massive drift of snow. She barely caught herself before she fell headfirst, briefly struggling to regain her balance. When at last she did, she turned on him with a vengeful gleam in her eye.

“Now you’ve done it!” she exclaimed, gathering snow into a ball and throwing it at his head.

Kili dodged the missile with impressive deftness and leaned down to gather his own. Bilba immediately realized her mistake—his hands were much larger than her own, and he was much stronger. “Really, now, you should know better than to get into a fight with me!” he taunted. “I have the best aim in the Blue Mountains!”

That was cue enough for Bilba. She took off into the woods at a run, dodging snowballs as she went and sending a few back in Kili’s direction. It was in the midst of their battle that they finally came upon the rest of the Company. She charged into their ranks at full speed, ducking behind Dwalin just in time for him to catch the brunt of one of Kili’s snowballs.

“You little menace,” Dwalin growled, dusting the snow off of his bald pate and leaning down to scoop up a handful of his own. He hurled it in Kili’s direction, who took cover behind a tree just in time. Nori was the next to throw a snowball uninvited—after that, Bilba lost track as the Company erupted into chaos.

Though the older dwarves tried to take cover for the most part, when Dwalin sent a snowball in Balin’s direction it didn’t go unnoticed. To her surprise, Balin stooped low and reciprocated the blow, a gentle chuckle bubbling from his chest.

Bifur and Bombur seemed to take an almost scientific interest in the crafting of snowballs, and though Bofur had sharp aim, against their combined efforts he was forced to retreat and seek out the support of Nori and Ori. This was much to Dori’s relief—when Ori pelted him with snow, innocently hoping his brother would join in the fun, what he received in return was an exasperated lecture.

It was all in good fun until Bofur sidestepped one of Bilba’s snowballs and it struck Thorin squarely in the back of the head. As he stiffened the better part of the Company froze, uncertain how he would react to their reckless behavior. He turned and surveyed the group for a long, silent moment, his gaze cold even as it lingered on Bilba’s startled face.

“Get back to work,” he ordered, continuing to pile wood into the cart they’d brought along. The dwarves did as they were told without protest, dropping their snow and dusting themselves off before hoisting their axes again and felling more trees. Thorin finished with his pile and took a break from his labor, moving to lean against the trunk of a small oak heavily laden with snow.

“It doesn’t hurt to have a little fun once in a while, you know,” Bilba reprimanded lightly as she followed Thorin to the tree. She stopped a few steps away from him, folding her arms in what she hoped was a firm stance. She couldn’t quite understand why he was acting so brusquely; even in the face of the winter’s hardships, he ordinarily spared a kind eye for his dwarves and a smile for his lover.

“Are you saying that I don’t have enough fun, Miss Baggins?” Thorin asked, his heavy brow inching upward. There was something strange about his tone that she couldn’t read.

“Yes, Master Oakenshield. I insist that you stop acting so serious all the time.” She gave a conclusive nod, greatly satisfied with herself. Perhaps she was being childish, but his aloof demeanor was nothing short of rude.

“As you wish,” Thorin replied, and she could have sworn he cracked a smile. Just then he lifted his boot and gave the trunk of the tree a firm kick—causing the heavy load of snow on its branches to drop unceremoniously over Bilba’s head.

The shriek that emanated from her mouth undoubtedly startled birds from their perches for miles around. She stood stiff as a board as the wet cold seeped through her cloak and heavy winter clothing, soaking her to the bone. Thorin, meanwhile, was _laughing_. It was the greatest show of mirth she’d ever seen from him. The Company seemed as surprised as she did—the sound of chopping axes had halted, and she heard no more than a faint rustle behind her before the others joined in laughing as well.

“You!” she cried, frantically dusting snow off of her head and shoulders. “You—utterly despicable, _downright dastardly_ —“ She stomped toward him and shoved him back against the trunk of the tree, hitting him with her mittens uselessly. He merely grinned and caught her flailing hands, wrestling them behind her back as he tugged her into his embrace.

“I love you,” he leaned down to murmur in her ear, as though it were a secret. She tried to tug her hands free again even as she smiled, and when he moved in to kiss her, she didn’t bother to resist. Whatever lingering discomfort she’d felt from Kili’s advances melted away in the familiar kiss, as though his strong embrace was all that was needed to set everything right again.

“I want you to know,” she gasped as they parted. “I’m only kissing you because you’re practically a furnace, and I’m utterly freezing right now.”

With an amused smile, he shed his coat and fur from his shoulders and wrapped them around Bilba’s small form. “Dwalin,” he called, taking her under his arm. “See to it that our work here gets finished. I must take this little hobbit back to town before she’s frozen solid.”

As they started back through the woods, Bilba spared a glance for Kili. Though there was much more to his expression than she could glean in so brief a moment, she got the impression that the burden he’d been carrying for so long had at last been lightened. When her back was turned to the Company, Bilba felt at ease leaving them behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapter titles just keep getting lazier.
> 
> Anywho, Kili's been long overdue for some fleshing out, and I was happy to finally have the chance. I really do love the idea of him and Bilba as a shippable pair, but if it ever happens I'll be putting it in its own standalone fic, far and away from this carefully constructed relationship between Bilba and Thorin. So... yeah. This chapter was something that I kind of needed to get out of the way, because really, poor Kili needed to be put out of his misery. *pets Kili*
> 
> And next chapter is going to contain lots of gratuitous Thilba fluff, with possible smut. We'll get back to plot shortly. I know a lot of people are chomping at the bit for it.
> 
> (Good job Thorin you pulled the stick out of your arse for like ten seconds)


	18. Bathtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilba share a steamy interlude. (Literally.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahead. I also feel that I should mention that there's some mild dominance talk in this chapter.

As Bilba sank down into the hot water of the bath that Thorin had drawn for her, a languid purr emanated from her throat.

“I’ll give you one thing,” she told him as she let the luxuriant heat of the water seep into her muscles. “Dwarves certainly do know fire better than anyone else. I can’t imagine how you managed to heat this water so quickly.”

“If after one hundred and sixty years of studying fire I cannot manage to heat bathwater efficiently, then I have failed my ancestors as a dwarrow,” he retorted from his chair. They were situated in one of the back corners of the barn, where the tub had become a permanent feature. The privacy curtain that concealed it from the rest of the room was a more recent addition; after an unfortunate incident where Bilba had walked in on a quarter of the company nude, it had been added according to her request. The chair, of course, wasn’t usually present.

Sinking even lower into the water, she dunked her head briefly under the surface to wet her hair, smoothing it back from her face as she emerged. She cast a sidelong glance at Thorin as she did so, noting a certain possessive lust in his eyes. Though she hadn’t always recognized the hungry, wanting look on his face, over the last few months she had come to know it well.

“Are you just going to sit there and watch?” she asked, giving him a wry smile as she smoothed hot water onto her arms and shoulders.

“Would you prefer to be left alone?” he replied, making no noticeable attempt to leave.

“That wasn’t quite what I was thinking, no,” she answered mischievously, drawing the water up along her neck. She was certain to make a show of it for him, rubbing her long fingers over the column of her throat and down over the swell of her breasts. Though she kept her expression staid and innocent, as if she were ignorant of the game, she was delighted when she looked at him and saw that his face had grown darker.

“Actually,” she sighed, as carelessly as she could muster, “I was hoping that you might join me. There’s plenty of room and we have oodles of time—and besides, I need someone to wash my back.”

The shift in his expression was barely perceptible, but undoubtedly there. His eyes reflected back the mischief in her own, a wanton smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I take a hobbit for a lover,” he sighed as he hauled himself out of his chair and pulled off his shirt. Next he toed his boots off and fidgeted with the clasp of his belt. “And all she would have me do is toil.” When the rest of his clothing was neatly set aside on the chair, he made his way to the tub and slipped in behind her.

“You’re a slave driver,” he murmured as he planted a kiss on her shoulder. She savored the familiar warmth of his lips on her skin and the quiet adoration that he reserved only for her. Romantic involvement revealed a different side of him that seemed all the more precious for its obscurity; it was deeply satisfying to know that few, if any, had ever seen this part of him before.

“Mmm,” she hummed as she situated herself between his legs. “Then get to work,” she ordered playfully, even as he gently brushed her wet hair aside. “Or face my—“ her voice caught and wavered as she felt his lips press against the knob at the base of her neck, then again lower on the protrusion of her spine. “Wrath.” The word slithered pathetically between her lips, nearly lost in the low moan that started in her chest and climbed upward to her throat.

“Your wrath?” Thorin echoed, amusement audible in his voice. She felt the heat of his breath whisper over her wet back, exploring the bare skin inch by inch. “Do you mean with that pinprick of a blade I made for you? The one which I have taught you to use? Do not tell me that the student has already outgrown the master.”

“Master?” Bilba repeated with a laugh. “Now there’s a lofty title. And here I thought I was the one with the power. It makes for an interesting relationship when the master is the student and the slave is the teacher.”

“It seems we find ourselves at an impasse,” he remarked, his slow trail of kisses ascending to the freckles on her shoulder. “Unfortunately, you should know that dwarves are rarely keen to share power.”

“Is that so?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and shifting just enough to look him in the eye. “Mm, you shouldn’t have said that.”

“Surely you do not mean to make this into a competition, Miss Baggins,” he reprimanded playfully. “You cannot possibly—“ as he spoke, she slid her hand along his thigh until she grasped his stiff length, and suddenly his voice wavered and he gave her a warning look.

“You’ll lose,” he promised her darkly, dropping all pretense of verbosity.

“Will I?” she challenged with a wicked smile, her fingers rubbing just so. He writhed in the water, a low groan sounding from his chest. She took immense pleasure watching him, strangely satisfied by the knowledge that so ancient and majestic a creature was vulnerable to even her slightest touch. Though the sight of Thorin standing proud and tall was still enough to heat her blood, she was just as fond of seeing him utterly undone on his back beneath her.

“Melekinh urkhasaz,” he breathed, resolutely shifting away from the back of the tub to close the distance between them.

“I love when you speak your language,” she commented casually. She stopped his advance by turning to face him and pushing him back against the wall of the tub. “It always means that I’ve either done something terribly right or terribly wrong.”

“With you?” he answered dryly, his eyebrows raising as he yielded reluctantly to her will. “Usually both.”

“But you love me,” she purred adoringly as she climbed into his lap, straddling his thick waist. Her hands emerged from the water just enough to smooth over his chest and shoulders, admiring the prominent musculature and thick, weathered skin. As she leaned forward to kiss him, her pelvis rubbed enticingly against his groin.

“But I love you,” he echoed obediently when they parted, his voice softening like he meant every word. It was one of the many things she admired about him—he was an emphatic lover.

“Now then,” she bumped the ball of her nose against the razor straight bridge of his, then started to mount him. When he touched her thighs in warning, she stopped. “Is something the matter?”

“Not so fast,” he warned with a wry smile.

“But I—“ the words were stolen from her tongue as he grasped her by the rear and lifted her, reversing their positions with an unfair amount of ease. Before she could register what had happened, she was pinned back against the wall of the tub and he was kneeling with her legs on either side of him. “Oh.”

“You were saying?” His thumb smoothed between her open legs, and as the words washed out of her mind with the arousal that flooded her body, she thought that it was almost unnatural how quickly he had learned all the right ways to touch her.

“To the abyss with you, Thorin Oakenshield,” she moaned, her body arching against her will.

“That’s what I thought,” he teased. His hands shifted to support her hips as he moved forward to insert himself, mindful of her comfort. She braced herself on the edge of the tub—then in the wake of a pregnant pause, he began to slowly roll his pelvis against hers. The water of the tub lapped with the movement, exaggerating every little shift.

This was the part he was best at. Though she enjoyed sitting astride his hips, riding him at her own leisure, there was something to be said for the power and control he demonstrated when their positions were reversed. While he may have been older than any of her hobbit suitors, he was also a seasoned warrior and a craftsman of nigh unparalleled skill. When his body moved, that musculature she so admired shifted in practiced harmony, with none of the clumsiness or vulgar brutality she might have expected from a less experienced partner. Like the strings of his harp, he struck her in all the best ways, and as arousal tensed up in her belly her body began to writhe and coil in the hot water.

“You’re abominable,” she moaned, her head rolling back as he leaned forward and tested the pale expanse of her chest with his hot tongue. “Utterly wretch—“ he thrust just so, and she could have sworn that a screw was tightened somewhere in her tense core. “Wretched,” her voice jumped an octave higher as she breathed the curse again, her hand shooting out to grip his dark mane. “Nn,” the curse descended into a quiet whimper as she felt the teasing sting of his teeth against her sensitive breast.

Even in light of his distraction, never once did he falter in his work below. His girth filled her utterly, each stroke setting her whole body singing. The familiar ache was rising in her core, hungrily accepting every thrust, the tightly-strung muscles in her body urging him to satisfy her.

Gradually his pace increased, moving faster and harder. Tighter and tighter the coil wound, spurred by the symphony of sensation as he slid into her just so, arousing every nerve. The wake of him resounded through her form from head to toe, every rocking movement between the two of them sending her closer to the teetering brink. The water of the bath began to slosh over the edges of the tub, but she was blissfully unaware of the mess.

“Don’t tell me that you’re—“ he paused to let out a low grunt as he thrust, “Finished insulting me.”

Her grip on his hair had tightened but she couldn’t bring herself to let go as his mouth found its way to the sensitive skin of her neck. “I—“ she huffed, her breath growing heavy and labored. The words she’d conjured dissolved just as quickly from her head, and she let out a primal cry, equal parts pleasure and frustration. “I can’t—“ she managed, her other hand reaching to grab his shoulder. She could feel the edge drawing near and was helpless to stop her fingernails from burrowing into his skin as it approached.

“Thorin—!” she cried as the coil in her belly released, shooting like a flash of white-hot light through her whole body. She clenched up around him as he continued, her mind blanking out entirely for several blissful moments as she was rocked with waves of sweet release. Then she felt him let go inside of her, and as he withdrew he collapsed against her shoulder.

“You realize that this doesn’t mean you win,” she moaned languidly, looking down at him with a relaxed smile.

“Of course not,” he answered, shifting to plant a gentle kiss above her breast. “As a matter of fact,” he added, drawing back to look at her. “This was a game I lost long ago.”

She moved to run her fingers along his thick beard. “I can’t say I’m sorry,” she said fondly, leaning forward to kiss him.

* * *

 

By the time the Company had returned, the bath had been emptied and the mess of water mopped up. Bilba was curled up beside Thorin on the floor near the hearth, listening to him pluck the strings of his harp as a merry fire chased the damp from her bones. Their time in the bath hadn’t been quite long enough for her garments to dry; consequently, she was wrapped in Thorin’s comically oversized clothes, which she struggled to keep from slipping off entirely.

“Well, the two of you look like you’ve had a fine time,” Bofur said, making no effort to conceal the suggestion in his tone as he moved straight to the hearth and pulled off his boots. A pair of feet wrapped in dirty, wet socks propped themselves up on a chair to warm.

“Ach,” Dwalin grunted derisively as he hung up his winter cloak.

“Did you deliver the wood to Bag End?” Thorin asked, his attention not straying from his harp.

“Aye, and Mistress Baggins was very grateful,” Balin supplied.

“Thank you,” Bilba said. Even if she was certain her mother had already thanked them amply, she felt obligated. It was no small service they were doing for her family.

“It must’ve been boring here at the forge without us,” Nori chimed innocently as he stooped to warm his hands over the fire. “Can’t imagine what the two of you have been doing all this time. That’s a nice look, by the way,” he added, nodding to the oversized clothes Bilba was wearing. She aimed a flimsy kick in the direction of his calf.

“Oh, no, I agree,” Bofur added, his fingers dancing absently where they rested on his belly. “Y’ look… cozy.”

Her sudden movement had caused the wide neck of the shirt to slip off of her shoulder, and she abashedly pulled it back up again. “If I’m cozy,” she retorted, “It’s not because of the clothes.” With a wry smile she shifted closer to Thorin, leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek. He accepted it with indifference, remaining blithely focused on his harp.

“Aye—clearly,” Dwalin mocked, sitting down to sharpen his axe. “Thorin’s the cuddliest fella I know. Why, I myself turn to him on those cold nights when I cannae sleep.” His sarcasm earned a disapproving glare from Thorin, to which Dwalin only snickered.

Bilba took the jibe as a challenge; with a demure smile, she adjusted her seat to give her better reach. Then she brushed Thorin’s hair back and tucked it behind his ear, leaning up to catch the lobe between her teeth. He abruptly stopped plucking his harp, resting one hand against the strings as he cast a sidelong glance in her direction.

“Bilba,” he warned. He was shy about their relationship with the Company, and preferred to keep their private moments private.

“Here now, what’s she doing?” Nori asked, his brow furrowing in fascination as he stared. “Eating him?”

“There are worse fates,” Bofur said, his eyebrows lifting in surprise and—she could have sworn—approval.

“Fili, Kili, come look!” Nori called across the barn. “Bilba’s eating Thorin’s ear!”

If the rest of the Company had taken no interest in the couple at the hearth, that was enough to gain their attention. Thorin sighed in exasperation and set his harp aside, turning to gently extract himself from Bilba before they became a spectacle.

“Just a bit of fun, darling,” she murmured to him as he gave her a chastising look.

“Another time,” he warned, his tone unrelenting.

“Hmph,” Dwalin grunted, turning his attention back to his axe. “Keep a leash on your lover.”

That stung more than Bilba could have anticipated. She abruptly froze, feeling the shock of insult sink beneath her skin, and briefly scrambled for some idea of what to do. What she _did_ , of course, was not the result of any great amount of thought, but rather, overwhelming instinct.

Shooting Dwalin a sharp look as she climbed into Thorin’s lap, she straddled his waist and kissed him hard on the lips for all the dwarves to see. She felt him tense immediately beneath her, his body frozen as he worked out what was happening, but he was helpless to the passion of her kiss. Rather than try to pull away as she anticipated, after a moment his hands hesitantly found their way to her hips, and though he did not reciprocate the kiss with quite so much force, his tongue slid shy and tender against her skin.

When she broke the kiss and took a deep, shuddering breath, she looked straight at Dwalin and gave him her most withering glare. “I’m not the sort one keeps on a leash,” she said levelly before pushing herself off of Thorin. The dwarves were so shocked by the unprecedented display of raw, sexualized affection that for a moment none of them moved—then at long last, Ori’s face split into a grin.

“Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” he said pleasantly, earning an incredulous look from Dori.

Gradually, the dwarves began shuffling around and muttering amongst themselves. A few shook their heads in disapproval, but for the most part, they didn’t seem to know what to make of the scene they had just witnessed. Dwalin, Bofur, and Nori looked properly cowed—Fili and Kili were exchanging confused looks as they tried to work out what they’d walked into.

Bilba glanced back at Thorin with reluctance as the attention of the Company shifted away from her. She was terrified that he might be upset with her after his warning, but to her surprise, he was tracing his fingertips over his lips with the hint of a smile.

“Your clothes should be dry soon,” he said, his expression bemused as he looked up at her. “I suggest you take them and go, before you start a riot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Melekinh urkhasaz." -- Hobbit woman of demonic origin.
> 
> So this was interesting to write. I would like to clarify that, judging from this chapter alone it would be easy to assume that Bilba's taken the dominant role in their relationship, but it's really quite a bit more complex than that. She's young, passionate, and assertive, so at first glance, it seems that way. But she's also inexperienced and a little reckless; meanwhile, Thorin is there as a steadying hand to guide her into a new and unfamiliar phase of her life. Though she talks big, at the end of the day he's always there for her to fall back on. And while she definitely enjoys pushing his buttons, he's done more than his fair share of button pushing himself.
> 
> As for the interaction with the Company, it really came out of nowhere. It wasn't something I expected to happen, but it was a little fun to show the Company Bilba's more sexually assertive side.
> 
> And plot in the next chapter. Oh god, plot.

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it. I adore commentary and feedback, it fuels me to keep going-- so by all means post a comment. If you prefer to message me privately (or anonymously via Tumblr) my Tumblr URL along with my email address are on my profile.


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